sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:50 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:50 am
Entry tags:
The Patrician's Papers: PG-13; 2 of 3. Vetinari/Margolotta.
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that's a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn."
--TS Eliot
THREE: PATRIOTISM AND PRIVATE LIFE
Editor's note: Chapter Three, the first traditionally styled section of the Papers, begins to read more like the politically-minded, manipulative Vetinari of later years. Apparently, on writing this, he has completed his education and begun "private life" as the chapter title suggests.
***
Upon entering into private life and service to the city, be it honest charitable service or the less rewarding civil employment, a man may find himself at a loss for how best to present his unique skills for consideration. It is therefore advisable, though not particularly enjoyable, for a young man of means to arrange gatherings and salons for the edification and enjoyment of his comrades. In this way, a measure of the competition may be taken, and with some little arrangements, particularly involving alcohol or arsenic, a reduction of competition is certainly possible.
When a young man finds himself outstanding amongst colleagues, it is a natural occurrence for them to wish to bring him to their level. This is inadvisable, as mediocrity is as certain a death as poisoning and far less brief. Wisdom dictates that the capable, intelligent man have a care not to appear too capable, or indeed too intelligent. A certain amount of boyish indiscretion may cover a multitude of ills.
For example, should a man of twenty-one take to studying statesmanship, it is advisable that he study it under the watchful eye of a senior Seamstress. It is far more acceptable for a man of twenty-one to pay such visits for personal pleasure than for education and acquisition of his political skills. In addition, many a woman knows secrets she would never tell a man who shared her bed, but will easily tell a man who uses her writing desk.
If kept up long enough, it may be assumed that the young man in fact suffers from a particular vice and his enemies, of which there are always a multitude, may become relaxed, believing that they may have him by the brevi crini* at any time.
* Editor's Note: Thought to translate as "virtuous actions" and possibly ironic.
For the youth preparing to embark upon a career in the political arena, however, there are cautions to put forward. Arenas often contain dangerous creatures; it is the reason they are enclosed and separate. Patriotism in moderation is a fine thing and a true ruler derives his motivation solely from love of city, but beware the man who is willing to die for the city's safety. Such men are only half-hearted patriots. Death is far easier than a life of servitude and possibly even humiliation in the best interests of the city. All else is romanticism or idealism, neither of which have any place in politics except as the emotions of a man who is soon to lose his head.
When one meets a true romantic, one should retreat as quickly as possible to a more defensible position -- or force him to.
As children, we mock those who are different: the smart, the stupid, the ugly, and the unlucky. But there is always one child who has, in the past, done something so horrific that no child will touch him. Envy this child, for his has learned that one desperate act ensures a lifetime of safety.
Of course, when we grow to adulthood we sensibly and logically outgrow the irrational fear of the different. My word, yes. But we always recall reputation, and if we know a dog has bitten our hand once, we hesitate to strike it a second time. Soon enough, the dog will be left to its devices with hardly a thought for when, or how hard, the original bite was.
Reputation, it would appear, is nine-tenths of the law*. In life, especially the life of society, what is said about one becomes the truth instantly and immediately.
* The other tenth being a sharp, pointed stick with which one makes the reputation in the first place.
It is best to cultivate one dangerous habit, as a politician; it proves to the populace that ruthlessness may extend to them, if they are not careful. A small foible, such as an intense, burning hatred of street performers, can frighten even the most deadly of adversaries into hesitation.
Hesitation is all a true master of the game needs, in order to defeat his opponent.
***
Drumknott, who prided himself on having a butler's discretion as well as a secretary's literary sense and a clerk's organisation, was always the first person in the Patrician's rooms in the morning. As Lord Vetinari did not require a fire to be set in his bedroom, there was no need for a scullery maid and Drumknott brought his Lordship's breakfast up personally. He always arrived sharply at eight o'clock and generally found the Patrician awake with a pile of the day's first paperwork for him. On occasion, Vetinari had actually returned from his office to his rooms to greet Drumknott. The secretary didn't ask, and Vetinari never said, how often he slept. He had never, in better than five years' service, found his employer asleep.
And he did not find him so now. Quite the opposite. Vetinari was in his library, still in his robes from the night before*, pacing, occasionally stopping to touch the spine of a book before turning to pace again. When he saw Drumknott, his eyes strayed to the clock, and his face took on a look of intense, interested self-analysis.
* Black, of course, but the black with the mildly frayed trim as opposed to the black with the dagger-concealing cuffs or the black with the Assassins' Guild insignia on the breast, or the extra-black black for formal occasions. Vetinari was not a man who changed a good thing. Especially if it was black.
Drumknott, who in addition to his other qualities had a copper's instinct for self-preservation, set the tray down carefully.
"Morning, your Lordship," he said.
"Good morning," the Patrician replied. He stopped pacing but still appeared...indecisive.
"Brought your breakfast, sir," Drumknott continued, to cover his nerves. "Water and dry toast, hardboiled egg. And, er..."
One of the Patrician's eyebrows raised slightly.
"Cook thought you might like blueberry pancakes," said the clerk, miserably. "I try to tell him, sir, but he gets so despondent if I don't at least bring it up -- "
"A trustworthy cook is worth the occasional...personality quirk," Vetinari replied. He looked down at the pancakes -- swimming in syrup and butter -- with mild distaste. "You like blueberries, don't you, Drumknott?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose so..."
"Good. Sit." Vetinari waved him into one of the uncomfortable library chairs and took another one. He began to eat with his usual quick grace -- spills and crumbs were things that happened to other people. Drumknott sat, slowly, with the air of one who is trying to think what he's done wrong, and consider how badly he'll be yelled at for it. He could not recall Vetinari spontaneously inviting anyone to dine with him before, and certainly not a clerk.
"You've eaten?" Vetinari asked, after a moment. Drumknott toyed with the fork.
"No, sir."
"Then do you intend to?"
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather -- "
"I will be expecting official visitors from Uberwald, either late this evening or early tomorrow morning," Vetinari said briskly. "Commander Vimes will, no doubt, notify you. He'll probably be rather angry about it so I suggest you fortify yourself."
Drumknott took a bite of the pancakes. Very, very carefully, he swallowed.
"I think perhaps a party must be arranged. One of those tiresome political ones, with the dreadful small appetizers and warm punch."
The clerk was on firmer ground here. Being asked the impossible was par for the course; it was being asked to sit and eat with Vetinari that he'd had difficulty with. "Of course, sir," he replied, around another very small bite of food. "In the Palace hall?"
Vetinari gave him a mild, cynical smile. "Do ask Lady Ramkin if she would be willing to host it, would you? Tell her we shall make all the arrangements. All she need do is provide the space. I recall the mansion on Scoone Avenue has a particularly fine ballroom."
"Yes, sir."
Vetinari drew a notebook towards him, and began to write with one hand while he sliced the top off his boiled egg with the other*. "Send these to our agent in Uberwald," he said. "The first in the breakable code. The second in Leonard's Code."
* Anyone who has attempted this will go some way towards understanding the sort of man Ankh-Morpork required as a ruler.
Drumknott took the paper, read it, thought about it for a moment, and smiled inwardly.
"Pseudopolis will double its candle orders from the city if it thinks our fat supply is going to die out," he said.
"Will it? How droll," Vetinari replied. "Pre-emptive economics is a wonderful thing, Drumknott. That will be all. Do not forget your pancakes."
***
If you could break the Patrician's thought process down into its component parts, which is not something to be attempted lightly, they might go something like this:
1. People want reasons for things to happen.
2. People want there to be a reason that a diplomat from Uberwald is visiting the Patrician.
3. Such as, trade negotiation.
3a. Or a long-dead romantic attachment, which is rather less acceptable.
4. We have a very good trade agreement with the Low King, which could easily go south.
5. One coded message to the Ankh-Morpork ambassador in Uberwald, to be delivered to the Low King, indicates new negotiations in the works.
5a. While the unbreakable coded message indicates that the first should be ignored and not delivered to the Low King at all.
6. Assumption made by the general public, when given access to the breakably coded message: The Patrician's going to lose the good trade agreement.
7. Resultant thought: Let's buy while it's cheap.
8. Continuation: Let's buy a lot while it's cheap.
All his actions really did were improve business, deflect curiosity from Vetinari's rather mysterious personal life, and give Margolotta a perfect excuse to pay him a visit.
Vimes' process was much less complicated:
1. That damn vampire's coming to my city.
2. Angry.
3. Need a drink.
But since he couldn't have a drink, he chewed his cigar and waited, in the early evening gloom, for the coach to arrive.
Vetinari's clerk had been very polite through all the shouting. Especially the very loud shouting about Vetinari using his own damn ballroom, which had come to an abrupt end when Sybil cleared her throat in a certain way. It was a way he'd grown to recognise, his husbanding circuitry indicating that he ought to stop shouting now and let her handle it or he'd wake the baby and then he, that is to say, Commander Samuel Vimes, would be sleeping in the dragon house.
Now there were clerks and decorators all over the damn place, and a new cook had already invaded the kitchen, putting the Vimes-Ramkin family cook into mild hysterics -- which had admittedly been entertaining to watch -- all so that tomorrow, Vimes could have a party for a vampire.
Whereas tonight, he got to stand at the city gates and wait and watch for her to arrive.
He'd toyed with the idea of putting her through customs checks and baggage searches, as she'd tried to do to him when his party arrived in Bonk, but he decided against it. He just wanted to see if she really was coming into the city. Besides, in Ankh-Morpork the Law was...well, it wasn't exactly respected, but it was at least acknowledged, and he had no need to assert himself as Margolotta'd had to do in a place where Lore prevailed.
So here he was, hunched down in his greatcoat, helmet plonked on his head, eyes and cigar-ember showing, in the chill of the early autumn evening, waiting for a vampire to roll into his city and start making a mess.
There was no way Margolotta was not going to make a mess. She was that sort of person. The question was how big a mess, and who would have to clean it up.
The answer to the second part was, depressingly and invariably, Sam Vimes.
He didn't move, didn't even blink as the black carriage approached. Blended down into the shadows.
It was the same one she used in Uberwald, though there was an actual driver holding the reins now*. The same black horses.
* One of the many Igors who served the noble families of the mountains; you could tell this was Margolotta's because of the scar patterns, and the third eyebrow.
He'd known she was coming, he'd talked to his officers in the Sto Plains and had Angua pick up the news from the howl. But until he saw the carriage pull past, he hadn't wanted to believe it.
Godsdamned vampires!
***
Uberwald didn't really have a reigning government, nothing so formal as the Patricianship in Ankh-Morpork, but then Uberwald was quite a bit larger, and the rule of succession could sometimes get a little dicey when you stabbed your predecessor and then twenty minutes later he rose from the grave.
The big ruling families had, however, gotten together and managed to arrange for embassies in some of the plains cities nearby. Genua had one, and Ankh-Morpork hosted one for most of the Sto Plains. As an acknowledged goodwill ambassador from Uberwald -- though perhaps stretching the 'goodwill' part of the term just a touch -- Margolotta would stay in the embassy with Igor. The humans who ran the embassy had not been warned of this, and so had not been given time to make judicious purchases of holy water or garlic to carry about their person.
They all agreed that Milady was nice enough. She didn't have obscene amounts of luggage, she brought her own valet, and she didn't shout at anyone.
Twenty minutes after her arrival, a slightly nervous-looking young man arrived on the embassy doorstep bearing a gold-edged invitation. Margolotta accepted it and opened it, reading carefully. Her eyes darted up to the unlucky delivery man, over the edge of the card.
"Lordship says I was to wait for a reply," the man said promptly. Margolotta smiled, displaying even white teeth.
"Tell his Lordship I vill accept zer invitation und I look forward to seeing him at the reception," she said easily. The man nodded sharply and very nearly bolted from the room.
"I see my reputation precedes me," she murmured. Igor appeared from the shadows.
"Mithtreth, we're being watched," he said, opening a small carrying case and removing Margolotta's dinner, which it was wise not to examine too closely.
"The Commander? Oh yes. I vouldn't call it 'vatched'. Ve're being brooded upon. Let him have his fun," she said with a wave of the hand. "The poor man has to have something to occupy him. Now. Tomorrow evening there is to be a formal reception. I shall have a dress made here, in Ankh-Morpork; find me a fast seamstress und provide her vith the necessary information. Vhile you're at it, call in at the clacks tower and collect any messages. In the meantime..." she stretched, languidly, and grinned. "I have a dinner date."
***
In the office of the Times, people were panicking.
This was not an unusual occurrence. William de Worde, who had once valued his boring indoor job quite highly, now found himself living on a razor's edge of nerves that were fueled by coffee, terrible food, and over-work in large amounts. Somewhere, news was happening, and people were trying to mobilise to get out and capture it before it got away.
Otto, who had begun training other iconographers and was rather better at taking days off than his employer, was working busily in the basement office, arranging and re-arranging several sheets of iconographs for his first Ankh-Morpork show. It was soothing and, more importantly, it was out of the way of the running feet up above.
"My vord, vhat a busy place," someone said. A face appeared over his shoulder. "Oh, that von of the troll, that's very good, Otto."
"Margolotta!" Otto cried, turning to greet her with a broad grin. Two vampires, smiling at each other, is more teeth than ever ought to be in one place at one time. "I didn't know you vere in zer city! Straazti vilkomen!"
"Vangoi, Otto. Straazti bigun smela."
Otto laughed, and gave her a brief hug of welcome. "Vot brinks you to Ankh-Morpork? No vait -- " he held up a finger. "Diplomacy!"
"Some of us take pictures, some of us are in them," Margolotta answered. "I came at the kind invitation of the Patrician."
"Politics," Otto said delightedly. "You muszt let me take your picture -- "
"Oh, vait for tomorrow," she replied. "There is to be a big reception for the ambassadress from Ubervald. At the home of the Duke of Ankh."
Otto's grin, if it was possible, widened. "Zere never is!"
"Oh yes. Come, darling, ve must have dinner und discuss it. I hear zer kosher butcher's in Long Hogsmeat has vonderful atmosphere."
Otto laid down what he was doing and led the way up the stairs. "It iz our first ethnic restaurant!" he declared proudly, over the noise of the press. "Zough ve have much trouble gettink anyvon else to appreciate Ubervald delicacies!"
***
And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
--TS Eliot
FOUR: ASSASSINS
Editor's Note: One would expect that this chapter, written by a man trained by the Assassins' Guild, would come rather earlier in the treatise-cum-journal that the Patrician's Papers appears to be. However, as Lord Vetinari never apparently took contracts after graduation, it may be that his first encounter with true professional assassination did not occur until he was well invested in the politics of city life. If we take his age at the time of chapter three to be around twenty-one, it is logical to assume that "Assassins" falls somewhere between then and his ascension to the Patricianship at the surprisingly young age of thirty-two.
***
In the upper echelons of society, there is no room for pity or mercy and precious little for kindness. A boy raised from childhood to regard his school friends as potential competition, and who is encouraged to eliminate the competition through the most honourable way the Assassins' Guild teaches, is the sort of vicious predator which a politician must constantly guard against.
Fortunately, with education come ideals of honour and truth, and these are very useful tools if one manipulates them responsibly. For those who do not choose to follow the path of Guild Honour, the world can be a very interesting place and will probably remain so for far longer.
There are, in essence, two types of Assassins, excluding common murderers and brigands. There is the Idealist Assassin, and there is the Effective Assassin.
The Idealist Assassin is the ultimate creation of society. He is well-bred, well-spoken, he dances gracefully and plays at least one musical instrument. He speaks several languages, and is at home in any company. He moves silently, he anticipates his enemies' actions; he keeps abreast of local politics, though we may be rather overly charitable in assuming that he understands their significance.
The Effective Assassin is all of these things, but he differs from the Idealist in that he is not bounded by certain conventions which make the Idealist the social creature that he is.
At the Assassins' Guild -- and this is not a secret to anyone with eyes and anything resembling a brain -- boys are taught not only to fight and kill, but also to do it with honour. They are taught Rules, and they are taught them young enough that even if they wanted to, they could not break these rules later in life.
It behooves a parent who wishes their young child to have a thorough education to teach them before their early schooling that there are, contrary to popular belief, no Rules that cannot be broken. Law only works as long as the people allow it to work, and honour is only valid in novels and sagas. Very rarely, you will note, do honourable men survive their own romantic stories.
The Guild has a very strict code, which says that victims must be inhumed at close range, must be given a fighting chance, and must, if time allows, know the name of the Assassin and who has sent them.
With these three laws in mind, it is ridiculously easy for a thoughtful man to defend his own life.
Without these three laws, there would be chaos. Hence the scarcity of the Effective Assassin, for he is a dangerous man. In addition to disobeying the code, he must have been trained highly in the politics of his actions, which is what passes for morality amongst men who have rejected the morality of society. You cannot care that you have killed a father; you must care that you have killed a man whose son may someday come for you. You cannot care that you have killed a Patrician, but you must care about why.
The Effective Assassin holds himself to a stricter code than any the Guild could write, but it is his own and if he has honour, it is only the most truthful and painful honour of selflessness -- that he does not kill for his own gain, or if he does, it is because his gain helps the cause he has chosen. Protection of the city, say, or the end to a war, or the prevention of one. The Effective Assassin must, if he is to be more than a bloodthirsty tyrant, care only for something greater than himself. He would willingly sacrifice not only his life but his dignity, pride, and comfort should it be asked.
***
The grand ballroom of the Scoone Avenue Mansion had not been used, at least not often, since Sybil was a young girl and her father held hunting parties there. Old Lord Ramkin had been a sensible if rather boisterous man -- the Ramkins bred for intelligence and good health, unlike most of the nobility, who bred for power or money* -- and he had ensured that the grand ballroom was airy, well-lit, and opened onto the best possible view of the mansion grounds. Vetinari decided, idly, that he would have to ask Lady Sybil to host this sort of thing more often. Besides, Vimes' reaction to having the people he most despised gathered under his own roof was quite entertaining, and Lord Rust had already lost a good pair of shoes to one of Sybil's dragons, which in Vetinari's mind was days' worth of amusement.
* Oddly enough, however, the Ramkins remained the most powerful and richest family in the city; there is something to be said for being smart enough to manage your money, and healthy enough to be powerful by sheer force of size.
He was just about to murmur a word of political caution into Lord Venturi's ear -- something about not announcing his dislike of dwarvish food when several well-armed dwarves of the City Watch were in the room -- when Vimes' butler, Willikins, announced "Her Ladyship, ambassador Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald, of Bonk."
The Patrician noted with an inner smile that Willikins pronounced it "Beyonk".
Then Margolotta swept into the room, and it was difficult to notice anything else.
After several humorous encounters with the Seamstresses, Igor had finally given up and begun asking for Drethmakerth, which was marginally easier for him to pronounce, at any rate. When he finally found one that satisfied him, he'd given Margolotta's orders and measurements exactly, and the result was stunning.
It's pink, thought Vetinari. It's so very pink.
It was pink. It had a dark-red trim of bats around the bodice. She was wearing sensible flat dancing slippers, which were also pink. The dress itself was of the latest fashion, and flattered her immensely -- there were few things which didn't -- but its unnatural pinkness overwhelmed the senses.
Otto Chriek, who would normally have been taking iconos like mad, was on her arm. He'd joyfully donned traditional eveningwear for the occasion, but still wore the little smoked-lens glasses and had an iconograph-bag slung on one shoulder. Her dress actually gave his black suit pink highlights.
Vimes, for whom pinkness was immaterial, greeted her formally and sullenly after a gentle prod from his wife. Margolotta accepted the greeting and made her way into the crowds of people, most of whom were watching her. Otto gave her a pat on the hand and broke away, off to a corner to unpack and assemble his iconograph.
Vetinari lurked his way into a corner as well. He wanted to watch for a while longer before he spoke to Margolotta in public for...
For the first time ever.
He knew that people had carried rumours back to Ankh-Morpork about him and an Uberwald vampire -- first Rust and the Selachiis, all those years ago, and then the Watchmen who'd gone to Uberwald for the crowning of the Low King, had revived them. Not many people bothered with names, but some of the assembled nobles had been watching him like hawks all night and had either bothered very much indeed with names or made shrewd guesses.
Why should I care? he thought. I'm the Patrician of the bloody city. I can do as I please.
Won't be Patrician much longer, if you think like that. Or if you're involved with a vampire. People aren't much fond of them, even now.
Involved? That's ages past. I should think I would be able to say hello to an old acquaintance and political ambassador without starting rumours.
Nothing you do is that safe. Everything you do starts rumours. That's why you do half of it.
That's why you'll do this, he thought. And set his drink down on a passing server's tray, and moved through the crowds.
"Lady Margolotta," he said, his voice entirely even. She turned from her conversation with Captain Ironfoundersson, and smiled. "So good to see you again. Let me be the first to welcome you to Ankh-Morpork."
"Lord Vetinari! It has been too long," she answered graciously. "I'm afraid Mr. Chriek has already beaten you to the velcome, but your thought is appreciated. Vot a fine city it is, too. As ve say in Ubervald, schmeltzen lakier privvi*."
* Loosely translated, "It has an interesting odour."
Vetinari fought down a wry smile. "Yes, indeed. A poetic way to put it, I must say. Have you been to see many of the sights, yet?"
"Ach no, ve only arrived last night, und I vas quite exhausted from the journey. Tomorrow I plan many things. Otto isz to give me a tour of zer Times office, und then the nice Captain Carrot has offered to show me the Colossus of Morpork. I understand it is qvite the accomplishment."
Carrot, behind them, saluted. Vetinari nodded gravely.
"I hope you may find time to tour the Palace tomorrow, as well? The grounds are..." he searched momentarily for a word to describe the landscaping of Bloody Stupid Johnson. "...unparalleled. And the Palace itself has a small museum, and quite a lot of interesting architecture."
"You must be very proud of it."
"I did not build it, my Lady," he said calmly.
"No, but it is your home, is it not? All the city, really, is the home of the Patrician. And I am grateful that you have invited me into it so graciously."
He was about to reply with something appropriately inane, when the music began.
"Vill you dance, Lord Vetinari? Or should I ask zer gallant Captain?" she asked. His hesitation was microscopic; the dance was slow enough that he could plausibly get by without his cane, and the last thing he wanted was Margolotta spending any more time than necessary with Carrot. He wasn't sure who would win a battle of wits like that, but he was certain that he didn't want to find out.
"Do you think I've made an impression?" she asked, once they were weaving slowly in and out of the other dancers. He considered things.
"That depends on what sort of impression you wanted to make," he said. "It's a very...interesting dress, Margolotta. Made in the city?"
"Oh, yes. I know it is rather bright, but black and red are so expected of von. And you cannot say that it is a dress in vhich I could be inconspicuous."
"Certainly not. One might say it is alarmingly conspicuous." He tried not to concentrate on the familiarity of this feeling, even across the years -- Margolotta in his arms, her keen intellect digging into his own, exploring thoughts even he hadn't known he possessed. Either one, alone, would have been tolerable; the physical and mental combined would be dangerous, if he let them.
"It vas certainly alarmingly expensive," she continued.
"Ankh-Morpork makes the best, and we charge for it."
"Do you now?" she asked, with a small smile on her lips. They danced silently for a few moments.
"Why have you come to my city, Margolotta?" he asked quietly. "You can't run away from the question this time."
"I did not run avay last time. I answered truthfully. You invited me, so I came."
"You would not leave Uberwald, not right now, not because a man you once met invited you to."
"Vhen he is zer Patrician -- "
"No, Margolotta. Tell me. I will not be denied."
Margolotta's eyes danced. "You never vould be, as I recall."
"Let us leave history out of it, shall we?"
"But history is a part of it, Havelock," she said, and he felt her hand, on his shoulder, grip him in a strong, iron grasp. "Do not forget vot I am."
"Have you forgotten what I am?" he asked. "It is in your best interest, Margolotta, to recall that I have ruled this city for years, without help or guidance, and I know how to handle a woman."
Margolotta laughed, the laugh of a woman at a political gathering who's heard a relatively funny joke. "You certainly do know that," she replied. "But if ve both recall, I vos the von who taught you."
"Do you expect me to blush?"
"I rather hoped you vould. There's a first time for everything, after all."
"I will find out why you are here, through you or through other channels. It is easier for all concerned if I know. As long as it does not harm my city, I won't interfere."
"You've grown too used to city politics, Havelock. You are unable to take anyvon seriously vhen they tell the truth. I wrote to you because I vas reminded of you by zer Duke. I came here because you asked me to in your letters. If you didn't vant me here, you szhouldn't have asked."
"I have not said you were not welcome."
"No, you distinctly have not. At any rate, improving relations between Ankh-Morpork and Ubervald is merely a pleasant coincidence. I note that you have already put your own spin on things, vith your little rumour about the Schmaltzberg trade agreement going bitter."
"Sour," he corrected.
"Ach, forgive, I am not a native speaker," she said.
He looked at her, intently, while his mind cast back. They'd often spoken Uberwaldean to each other; he was fluent, and some ideas were more easily expressed in that language. He had tried, in his stupid naievete, to call her by some obscure endearment, but the translation had been rather awkward, and she'd laughed. Forgive, he'd said, I am not a native speaker...
I forgive, she'd said, and kissed him, and the conversation had come to a rather abrupt end.
"Zhraoi," he answered, before he could stop himself. I forgive.
The music ended, and she backed away, quickly, suddenly frightened by something in his eyes. He bowed, calmly.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady Margolotta," he said formally. "I look forward to seeing you at the Palace, tomorrow. Give your name to any guard, and they will make sure you are well looked-after."
***
Margolotta avoided him for the rest of the evening; she spent her time charming the other nobles, discussing politics, or dancing with one after another of the men of the upper-class, which did not gain her any points amongst the wives, but Margolotta didn't really have to care about wives, did she?
Vetinari, not to be outdone, spent most of his time in private conversations with various people, managing the city in ways that he could not achieve by sitting behind a desk and sorting papers. A tip here, a nod there, a rumour started or passed along to the right people...it all added up. He did it almost instinctively, after this long in office.
The carriage left him in the Palace courtyard, once the reception was over, and he nodded to the guards as he climbed the stairs up to his chambers. He almost expected Margolotta would be there waiting for him again, all things considered, but when he opened the door, only Wuffles sat patiently in the middle of the floor, and wagged his raggedy tail when he saw his master enter. Vetinari knelt and scratched the ill-tempered little terrier behind the ears.
A late dinner had been left for him on the table in the library, and he read through a fresh stack of reports as he ate, slipping Cook's gratuitous plate of sliced roast beef to Wuffles, who harried them energetically with the few teeth he had left. Nothing too dangerous in the evening reports; one or two political matters that would have to be attended to, possibly employing the Metaphorical Scorpion Pit, but he did so enjoy threatening people without actually making threats. He left a note for the guards to be informed that Lady Margolotta would be visiting the Palace on the following day; he answered a brief letter from the king of Pseudopolis, including his next move in the chess game they were carrying on by correspondence (checkmate to Vetinari in twelve moves, but the lad was improving). He pondered whether or not Wuffles would eat the letter from the Thieves' Guild, asking for a rise in crime, if it was soaked in enough au jus.
He spent several minutes staring out the windows, letting the day's events -- both at the reception, and in the city at large -- tumble around in his mind.
Long ago, when he was younger, his mother had taught him a game called Find the Levers. It was a systematic way of understanding an opponent and deciding how best to deal with said opponent. Over time, it had become such second-nature that he rarely called it that anymore; he simply did it without a thought. These days, he played it not just against people, but against a collective city, and he didn't bother to keep score because if he was losing, he was out of a job, and very possibly a life.
It hadn't worked very well on Margolotta.
It still didn't.
Oh, dear...
***
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed."
--TS Eliot
FIVE: CONTROL
Editor's Note: There are many rumours surrounding Vetinari's appointment to Patrician. Whether or not he did indeed arrange for it, it is almost certain that he expected it to occur, sooner or later.
In Chapter Five we see the fully-developed literary voice of still-young Havelock Vetinari, an intellectual voice devoid of its earlier romanticism and yet, at the same time, showing a thorough understanding of it. There is no doubt in the Editor's mind that this chapter was written either during or shortly after Vetinari's rise.
There is one apocryphal anecdote that states he spent his first night as Patrician writing, after which he destroyed the papers he had written. Certain singed scraps have appeared, over the years, claiming to be the Patrician's lost writing; none have ever even had their claims acknowledged by the Palace. Perhaps, undestroyed, Chapter Five may be considered the lost writings that were supposedly burnt so long ago.
***
But wait.
Why read about control?
When one has the power to read about so much more.
Burn it? His first writings in office? Not unless he had to...
There is a book, on Lord Havelock Vetinari's bookshelf -- one of many in his private library. A dreary volume on civic planning in Quirm. And inside, an envelope still addressed though never sent, with the dual wax seals of the Patrician and the family Vetinari. Heavy paper, the kind he still uses for personal correspondences -- not that he's had many, in recent years. Nor is this a recent letter. It has been pressed flat by too much time between pages, and the ink has begun to fade, but it is still oh, so legible.
Its existence has been all but forgotten. It was a long time ago, after all, and he was a different man.
***
Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician
On the eve of his ascension to office
To Margolotta von Uberwald
Zer Castle
Bonk, Uberwald
My own Margolotta:
Is it not shocking? Will you not be surprised? No, you of all people will not be, though my acquaintances in the city most certainly will. Havelock Vetinari? That timid, quiet young man? Patrician? Surely not, why would they appoint such a wet blanket as Vetinari? Or perhaps they will call me a nutter. I would think the two would be mutually exclusive, but I have learned never to underestimate the general population.
The answer is, of course, that I have been appointed because those doing the appointing think they can control me, which is an illusion I have quite carefully maintained as I pulled their own highly visible strings. They think I will make an elegant, scandal-less figurehead. After all, am I not an ascetic? I eat little, I sleep little, I do not have a whisper of rumour about me -- except the carefully concealed ones they keep as blackmail, about my visits to Rosemary Palm's house of...oh, what a quaint phrase she has! Negotiable affection. If they knew that I go only in search of a quiet place to study, if they knew Rosie was an ally, they might be slightly more afraid. In the morning, they will see.
I have never known a time when I did not love my city. I have planned for this day all my years, it seems to me, but now that it is here, I come to understand that I have been playing at a game of soldiers, that my ambitions and plans have been an entertainment. Like my adolescent pastimes of tormenting Cyril de Worde (surely you remember Cyril? Tall boy, ridiculously obsessed with truth-telling? He has two sons now. I fear they will be either painfully honest or extremely good liars).
It has all been nothing more than a pastime. Some men breed horses, but I couldn't be a normal man, could I? I had to breed the perfect coup instead. Can I now live up to the ideals of the man I pretended to be?
I do not complain, I have taken this on myself. In ten years, mark you, we will be a force to be reckoned with, across the Disc. I know how I shall do this. The delicious anticipation is in actually accomplishing it. It is as taking a test, when you know you will pass; there is an enjoyment about it. But there is also a great fear, a great longing for a life in which nothing is more important than what cravat I should wear to the next dance.
Joyous day, I shall never have to wear a cravat again. The robes of office are quite severe, and do not allow for much decoration. They look rather like something that belongs to a wizard too cheap to buy proper robes and -- once they have been fitted to me -- I suspect too cheap to feed himself properly, either.
I could write to you all night. With you there need not be an order to my thoughts. With you, I need not explain unless I wish to. How can it be that a vampire in Uberwald who has never set foot in Ankh-Morpork is the only one who could ever keep step with me? How can it be that you, who sacrificed the life worth living for Tradition, still understand me better than the keenest political rival I have in the city? In nearly ten years I have never found a woman worthy of competition with you. Some may be favourably compared, but none have surpassed your wit and intellect. But your flaw, Margolotta, is that you refuse the life I embrace. So until one of us falters...
Perish the thought.
I remain in some part, yours,
Havelock Vetinari
Patrician
***
For any other man, the morning's work might have been difficult; some of it might have seemed trifling. The anticipation of Margolotta's arrival at the Palace would have thrown our hypothetical Otherman into fits of impatience. But Havelock Vetinari, who had calmly waited through a war for the right time to strike, who had spent hours attempting to hold coherent conversations with Leonard of Quirm, and who on a daily basis read more useless information than the Times' Society Page editor, was not Otherman.
It was a fine day, only a trifle too hot, but the Oblong Office remained cool and dim as he attended to the duties of the morning. There were complaints, always of course, and reports from spies, and petitions for various laws to be enacted. He set one or two of the petitions aside for Drumknott, who had begun a wall in the clerks' anteroom devoted to the choicest suggestions, among them the Seagull Ban from last Tuesday and the Regulation Of Rain Act from sometime last year -- that one had actually been quite popular, and several hundred people had damply signed it, Sir Samuel Vimes amongst them (though he was sure Vimes' signature had a sarcastic air about it).
Only a man as attuned to his masters' moods as Drumknott might have noticed that the Patrician grew increasingly brusque as the day wore on. But Drumknott was busy, and the other clerks were far too afraid of Vetinari's sarcasm at the best of times, to notice an increase in it on this particular day.
By evening, he was downright sharp. It went very hard for the prisoners at the afternoon's sentencings; they'd still have gotten the same punishments, more or less, but, as they say, it's all in the delivery.
Sentencing had traditionally required the Patrician to wear a blindfold, to prove that justice was blind; several past Patricians, quicker on the uptake than their much more short-lived fellows, had been quite imaginative in their methods of concealing eyeholes in the blindfolds. Vetinari, who knew that justice was never blind but understood the human need for symbols, had chosen to do away with the blindfold, and instead wore a close-fitting black cap. He removed it as he stepped back into the Oblong office, smoothing down his hair and picking up his pen. The sun had already set, and candles had been lit at his desk.
And Margolotta had not come to the Palace.
"I believe I shall work late this evening, Drumknott," he said, as the clerk followed him into the office. "Have dinner brought in around nine, if you would."
"I'm afraid there's one more appointment today," Drumknott said. He tried to appear as small as possible.
"I am not interested in any more appointments," Vetinari snapped, uncharacteristically.
"Yes, sir, but you did say Lady Margolotta was to be shown up, if she came," Drumknott answered carefully*. "She was very insistent, sir."
* It was one of those little moments when the correct phraseology meant the difference between a comfortable life as Vetinari's head clerk, and a comfortable but rather shorter life as a marksmanship target.
Vetinari froze.
One finger tapped idly on his desk.
"It would not do to ruin diplomatic relations," he muttered. "Show her in, then."
It wasn't pink, but Margolotta had certainly embraced the concept of 'tourist'. She wore a brightly decorated straw sun-hat, which she removed when she walked into the office. Her dress was vividly patterned with large flowers*. In deference to her Uberwaldean heritage, they were red and black.
* What appeared to be flowers, anyhow. It was best not to examine them too closely.
Somehow, though, she pulled it off. The flowers, the sun-hat, the pink, all of it. He'd give quite a lot of money to know how.
"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," she said. Drumknott accepted the hat, bowed, and left the room.
"Good evening, Lady Margolotta," he replied. "Have you had an entertaining day?"
"Oh, it vos all right. There are certainly lots of things to see. I vill have to acquire some gargoyles for zer castle, I think; they do add such a decorative touch to any building. I shall have Igor locate some who vould like the chance to travel." She seated herself across the desk from him, and folded her hands in her lap complacently. "Und how goes the ruling of the city?"
"It has not fallen into chaos. One might call it a good day," he replied. "We had expected you rather earlier than this."
"Yes, I know. I had to spend all day vith that valking Guide Book to Ankh-Morpork, in order to time this right," Margolotta said. His expression did not change. She tried again. "Vill you not at least invite me to dinner for my trouble?"
"Dinner?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to recall once being asked to show Willing, and responding that "willing" did not translate to "neck" in Morporkian..."
"Shocking!" she laughed. "Surely you have some blutvurst about the place?"
"I imagine so. And certainly, since night has now fallen and Ankh-Morpork can be dangerous for a woman alone in the city, one ought to extend every courtesy," he said thoughtfully. "Lady Margolotta, will you stay to dinner? I understand an underdone roast might be arranged."
"I vould be charmed, Lord Vetinari," she replied, graciously. He rose, and offered her his arm. He was perfectly composed when she took it. Perfectly composed.
There was a flurry of movement down the hall, as they began a leisurely walk toward the State Dining Room, which was used for formal occasions, and had one of those ridiculously long tables, with an ornate thronelike chair at the head. He knew, though he could not see, that the clerks were rushing to lay linens and silver for them. Undoubtedly someone had been sent down to tell cook to prepare something appropriate for Lady Margolotta. It had taken some little time, to organise the household this efficiently, but any man who could not run a Palace and set a decent table on short notice didn't deserve to be given the responsibility for a city. By the time they reached the dining room, it was laid with dinner service for two and several candelabras.
"Dinner will be ready shortly, sir," said an impeccably-dressed clerk, appearing at his elbow as he pulled Lady Margolotta's chair out for her on one side of the enormous head throne, then seated himself across from her. "A course of soup, steak tartare for the lady, and the usual for yourself, sir?"
"Yes, thank you," Vetinari said dismissively. The clerk vanished, politely.
"And vot is your usual?" Margolotta asked. "Roast pheasant? Stalled ox?"
"I'm afraid you have a romantic idea of what a Patrician ought to eat," he answered. "It is Thursday, is it not? I believe the entree for tonight is sliced fresh bread, with marmalade, and perhaps some walnuts if I am particularly hungry."
"Valnuts? That's all?"
"I like walnuts," he replied, unconcerned. "And the soup, of course, because there is company. Tomato, I believe."
There was a salad, too, as it turned out. Vetinari picked at it. Food which was green made him vaguely suspicious.
He was, however, past master at the art of meaningless conversation. He heard Margolotta's account of the Colossus of Morpork and the Dwarf Bread Museum, with its 'splendid replica of the Scone of Stone -- von might almost think it vas the real thing'. He told her some of the history of the Palace, when she asked. She was quite good at small talk, too. He wondered why they bothered. Surely, if they were going to fill the room with nothing of worth, it would be more pleasant to eat in silence?
Perhaps not, he thought, as she laughed at some meaningless little joke he'd made.
"Now, it is far too dark to szee the gardens, but you must show me -- you mentioned there is a museum in the Palace?" said Margolotta, daintily finishing her meal. "I am sure it vould be most edifying."
"Certainly," he said, and again took her arm, and again led her through the Palace, his Palace, down the steps and through the throne room.
The museum of the Palace was small, and devoted mostly to portraits, sculptures, and important documents of previous Patricians. Margolotta was particularly interested in a painting of The Death Of Lord Winder; it took her but two minutes to find the dark black shadow, sword-in-hand, which Vetinari had asked Leonard to "add" to the painting recently. There was a striking bust of Mad Lord Snapcase; it was unnerving how one eye appeared to follow you around the room, while the other appeared to turn crazily in its socket.
There were several framed letters, behind the bust. Margolotta looked at them with interest.
"Snapcase's correspondence. Some of it, at any rate. I find it instructional. He was a master at the art of the casual letter," Vetinari said, standing behind her. "You would never think, to read some of them, that he was stark raving mad."
"Yes...letters rarely betray our true feelings," she said. "They are so...orderly."
"Do you find them so? It is far more difficult to retract or twist a statement, once it has been written and sent. Not, perhaps, a pure honesty, but of a sort -- one can hold a man to the words he's written."
He wondered what he'd said that made her tense; after a moment, she sighed. "Is that vhy you never wrote, Havelock?"
The question badly disarmed him. It had been a long time since someone asked him a question he wasn't expecting.
Or didn't know the answer to.
"I...no. No, that was not the reason. I had not thought of the honesty of the written word, when we first...met," he said. "Or if I had, I was not conscious of it."
"That vould have been an acceptable reason, though," she said, still staring at the maniacally even handwriting of the late Lord Snapcase. "I could have been happy if I had thought it."
"I am sorry I did not lie to you, then."
"Oh, don't be petty, Havelock." Margolotta turned to face him.
"Petty?" he asked, in a low tone.
"I did not ask you to lie to me. I merely said that it vould have pleased me to know. It vould have been better zan thinking zat you did not write because you did not vant to."
He gave her a rare smile. "Why I did or did not -- "
"Do not szay it is not important. It iz important. Vhy did you not write me?"
Anger overrode caution, and oh gods! When had that last happened? "What more was there to say?" he asked. "I was nineteen years old, Margolotta. I was and am quite human, you know. I have not had three hundred years in which to learn not to -- "
He was ready for the swing, when it came, but not for the unearthly strength behind it. He could have ducked, but that would have endangered the Bust of Snapcase, and he hated it when people destroyed art. The ringing slap of her open hand hitting his defensively raised arm echoed in the tiny room.
For a second, he thought she might have broken his wrist.
"How dare you!" she demanded. "How dare you sztand zere in your black robes und your smug grin and szay zat because I vos older zan you I felt nozzing!"
"You hurt me," he said, calmly, moving his hand and rubbing the heel of his palm. "Imagine what you could have done to my jaw with a slap like that."
"You really believe zat is true, Havelock? Zat I did not feel anyzing for you?" she asked, heedless of his tacit warning that this was venturing into uncharted waters, and it was best to return to the mundane.
"Come now, Margolotta. I know that you have a gothic sensibility, and it is charming in its place, but it was one week. Only a little over five days."
"Und yet you can say to me zat you know vot I vos feeling?"
He hesitated. She had a point. He had simply assumed, she'd had so many more years than he in which to...well, to do what she did best, which was be a vampire. She'd told him, back then, that the Uberwald vampires were known for their hospitality, a very specific brand that did indeed interest the sort of young explorer that Havelock Vetinari was not.
"I had never met a man like you in centuries of life," she hissed. "For you I controlled my hungers and listened to your voice, I told you anyzing I knew about anyzing you asked. Nineteen! No vonder you rule Ankh-Morpork now! Vhen you vere a boy you could have had vot you vanted from anyone."
"I have what I wanted," he said coldly, because her words were beginning to frighten him. "I have my city."
"Your city hasz you!" cried Margolotta. "You have nozzink, Havelock! A few books, a dog, a nice office, that'z not a life. That'z juszt an existence. Control is fine in its place, but it's just as much -- "
" -- an addiction," he answered, suddenly gripping her elbow and pulling her close. "You think I don't know that? You think I, who have sacrificed you and everything else for the city, don't know that? But I don't regret it! Not one bloody minute of it!"
A small portion of his mind registered that he was shouting, and in this palace someone almost certainly could hear him. Another small portion registered that it was ridiculous to have a lovers' quarrel under the watchful eyes of several mad former Patricians, and this ought to be taken up elsewhere, and at another time.
He ignored both.
"Damn you, Margolotta! You come here after all this time and you do this to me? I had excuses then! I was young, I was stupid -- "
"You vere attracted to me. You sztill are," she answered, and suddenly he saw the calm that he normally had, in her eyes. He froze.
This is how they feel, he thought. Everyone who's looked across the desk at me since I became Patrician. This is how all of them feel. Like a thunderstorm that's suddenly come face to face with the black apocalypse. Like an ant on a battlefield. When you feel the rage well up in you and you look into those eyes and they're desperately, terrifyingly calm and knowing...
"You veren't stupid. You've never been young. You vere in love, Havelock. Zese things do happen," she said softly. "It's not my fault ve only had a veek together. Another month or two and you'd have figured it out."
He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against hers. "Then why didn't you write to me, Margolotta? The roads go both ways."
"I didn't know it either, you arrogant bastard," she answered. He could feel her breath on his cheeks. "How vas I to know I loved you? You barely gave me time to think. And then there vere the years, there vos the politics, there vos too much to do. For both of us."
"I belong to the city. You know that. You wouldn't be happy. Neither of us would."
"You said that tventy-five years ago. You vere frightened then, too."
"Frightened? You talk to me about frightened, Margolo -- " he had to stop. She used to try that trick on him when he was getting pompous...
He had to stop because she was kissing him.
And then he was glad he'd stopped, because he was drowning in her kiss.
And then he didn't want to stop at all. For anything.
Even for his city.
He felt her sharp incisors graze his lips, and her body press itself to him, oh so familiar. She felt so small when he put his arms around her like this -- a woman composed entirely of curves and soft surfaces, but solid as rock underneath.
"Havelock," Margolotta murmured, into his mouth. "Vot vere you sayink?"
"I don't recall," he answered, distracted by the feeling of her hands on his chest, his jaw. "It can't have been very important..."
Continue to the next part
But that's a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn."
--TS Eliot
THREE: PATRIOTISM AND PRIVATE LIFE
Editor's note: Chapter Three, the first traditionally styled section of the Papers, begins to read more like the politically-minded, manipulative Vetinari of later years. Apparently, on writing this, he has completed his education and begun "private life" as the chapter title suggests.
***
Upon entering into private life and service to the city, be it honest charitable service or the less rewarding civil employment, a man may find himself at a loss for how best to present his unique skills for consideration. It is therefore advisable, though not particularly enjoyable, for a young man of means to arrange gatherings and salons for the edification and enjoyment of his comrades. In this way, a measure of the competition may be taken, and with some little arrangements, particularly involving alcohol or arsenic, a reduction of competition is certainly possible.
When a young man finds himself outstanding amongst colleagues, it is a natural occurrence for them to wish to bring him to their level. This is inadvisable, as mediocrity is as certain a death as poisoning and far less brief. Wisdom dictates that the capable, intelligent man have a care not to appear too capable, or indeed too intelligent. A certain amount of boyish indiscretion may cover a multitude of ills.
For example, should a man of twenty-one take to studying statesmanship, it is advisable that he study it under the watchful eye of a senior Seamstress. It is far more acceptable for a man of twenty-one to pay such visits for personal pleasure than for education and acquisition of his political skills. In addition, many a woman knows secrets she would never tell a man who shared her bed, but will easily tell a man who uses her writing desk.
If kept up long enough, it may be assumed that the young man in fact suffers from a particular vice and his enemies, of which there are always a multitude, may become relaxed, believing that they may have him by the brevi crini* at any time.
* Editor's Note: Thought to translate as "virtuous actions" and possibly ironic.
For the youth preparing to embark upon a career in the political arena, however, there are cautions to put forward. Arenas often contain dangerous creatures; it is the reason they are enclosed and separate. Patriotism in moderation is a fine thing and a true ruler derives his motivation solely from love of city, but beware the man who is willing to die for the city's safety. Such men are only half-hearted patriots. Death is far easier than a life of servitude and possibly even humiliation in the best interests of the city. All else is romanticism or idealism, neither of which have any place in politics except as the emotions of a man who is soon to lose his head.
When one meets a true romantic, one should retreat as quickly as possible to a more defensible position -- or force him to.
As children, we mock those who are different: the smart, the stupid, the ugly, and the unlucky. But there is always one child who has, in the past, done something so horrific that no child will touch him. Envy this child, for his has learned that one desperate act ensures a lifetime of safety.
Of course, when we grow to adulthood we sensibly and logically outgrow the irrational fear of the different. My word, yes. But we always recall reputation, and if we know a dog has bitten our hand once, we hesitate to strike it a second time. Soon enough, the dog will be left to its devices with hardly a thought for when, or how hard, the original bite was.
Reputation, it would appear, is nine-tenths of the law*. In life, especially the life of society, what is said about one becomes the truth instantly and immediately.
* The other tenth being a sharp, pointed stick with which one makes the reputation in the first place.
It is best to cultivate one dangerous habit, as a politician; it proves to the populace that ruthlessness may extend to them, if they are not careful. A small foible, such as an intense, burning hatred of street performers, can frighten even the most deadly of adversaries into hesitation.
Hesitation is all a true master of the game needs, in order to defeat his opponent.
***
Drumknott, who prided himself on having a butler's discretion as well as a secretary's literary sense and a clerk's organisation, was always the first person in the Patrician's rooms in the morning. As Lord Vetinari did not require a fire to be set in his bedroom, there was no need for a scullery maid and Drumknott brought his Lordship's breakfast up personally. He always arrived sharply at eight o'clock and generally found the Patrician awake with a pile of the day's first paperwork for him. On occasion, Vetinari had actually returned from his office to his rooms to greet Drumknott. The secretary didn't ask, and Vetinari never said, how often he slept. He had never, in better than five years' service, found his employer asleep.
And he did not find him so now. Quite the opposite. Vetinari was in his library, still in his robes from the night before*, pacing, occasionally stopping to touch the spine of a book before turning to pace again. When he saw Drumknott, his eyes strayed to the clock, and his face took on a look of intense, interested self-analysis.
* Black, of course, but the black with the mildly frayed trim as opposed to the black with the dagger-concealing cuffs or the black with the Assassins' Guild insignia on the breast, or the extra-black black for formal occasions. Vetinari was not a man who changed a good thing. Especially if it was black.
Drumknott, who in addition to his other qualities had a copper's instinct for self-preservation, set the tray down carefully.
"Morning, your Lordship," he said.
"Good morning," the Patrician replied. He stopped pacing but still appeared...indecisive.
"Brought your breakfast, sir," Drumknott continued, to cover his nerves. "Water and dry toast, hardboiled egg. And, er..."
One of the Patrician's eyebrows raised slightly.
"Cook thought you might like blueberry pancakes," said the clerk, miserably. "I try to tell him, sir, but he gets so despondent if I don't at least bring it up -- "
"A trustworthy cook is worth the occasional...personality quirk," Vetinari replied. He looked down at the pancakes -- swimming in syrup and butter -- with mild distaste. "You like blueberries, don't you, Drumknott?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose so..."
"Good. Sit." Vetinari waved him into one of the uncomfortable library chairs and took another one. He began to eat with his usual quick grace -- spills and crumbs were things that happened to other people. Drumknott sat, slowly, with the air of one who is trying to think what he's done wrong, and consider how badly he'll be yelled at for it. He could not recall Vetinari spontaneously inviting anyone to dine with him before, and certainly not a clerk.
"You've eaten?" Vetinari asked, after a moment. Drumknott toyed with the fork.
"No, sir."
"Then do you intend to?"
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather -- "
"I will be expecting official visitors from Uberwald, either late this evening or early tomorrow morning," Vetinari said briskly. "Commander Vimes will, no doubt, notify you. He'll probably be rather angry about it so I suggest you fortify yourself."
Drumknott took a bite of the pancakes. Very, very carefully, he swallowed.
"I think perhaps a party must be arranged. One of those tiresome political ones, with the dreadful small appetizers and warm punch."
The clerk was on firmer ground here. Being asked the impossible was par for the course; it was being asked to sit and eat with Vetinari that he'd had difficulty with. "Of course, sir," he replied, around another very small bite of food. "In the Palace hall?"
Vetinari gave him a mild, cynical smile. "Do ask Lady Ramkin if she would be willing to host it, would you? Tell her we shall make all the arrangements. All she need do is provide the space. I recall the mansion on Scoone Avenue has a particularly fine ballroom."
"Yes, sir."
Vetinari drew a notebook towards him, and began to write with one hand while he sliced the top off his boiled egg with the other*. "Send these to our agent in Uberwald," he said. "The first in the breakable code. The second in Leonard's Code."
* Anyone who has attempted this will go some way towards understanding the sort of man Ankh-Morpork required as a ruler.
Drumknott took the paper, read it, thought about it for a moment, and smiled inwardly.
"Pseudopolis will double its candle orders from the city if it thinks our fat supply is going to die out," he said.
"Will it? How droll," Vetinari replied. "Pre-emptive economics is a wonderful thing, Drumknott. That will be all. Do not forget your pancakes."
***
If you could break the Patrician's thought process down into its component parts, which is not something to be attempted lightly, they might go something like this:
1. People want reasons for things to happen.
2. People want there to be a reason that a diplomat from Uberwald is visiting the Patrician.
3. Such as, trade negotiation.
3a. Or a long-dead romantic attachment, which is rather less acceptable.
4. We have a very good trade agreement with the Low King, which could easily go south.
5. One coded message to the Ankh-Morpork ambassador in Uberwald, to be delivered to the Low King, indicates new negotiations in the works.
5a. While the unbreakable coded message indicates that the first should be ignored and not delivered to the Low King at all.
6. Assumption made by the general public, when given access to the breakably coded message: The Patrician's going to lose the good trade agreement.
7. Resultant thought: Let's buy while it's cheap.
8. Continuation: Let's buy a lot while it's cheap.
All his actions really did were improve business, deflect curiosity from Vetinari's rather mysterious personal life, and give Margolotta a perfect excuse to pay him a visit.
Vimes' process was much less complicated:
1. That damn vampire's coming to my city.
2. Angry.
3. Need a drink.
But since he couldn't have a drink, he chewed his cigar and waited, in the early evening gloom, for the coach to arrive.
Vetinari's clerk had been very polite through all the shouting. Especially the very loud shouting about Vetinari using his own damn ballroom, which had come to an abrupt end when Sybil cleared her throat in a certain way. It was a way he'd grown to recognise, his husbanding circuitry indicating that he ought to stop shouting now and let her handle it or he'd wake the baby and then he, that is to say, Commander Samuel Vimes, would be sleeping in the dragon house.
Now there were clerks and decorators all over the damn place, and a new cook had already invaded the kitchen, putting the Vimes-Ramkin family cook into mild hysterics -- which had admittedly been entertaining to watch -- all so that tomorrow, Vimes could have a party for a vampire.
Whereas tonight, he got to stand at the city gates and wait and watch for her to arrive.
He'd toyed with the idea of putting her through customs checks and baggage searches, as she'd tried to do to him when his party arrived in Bonk, but he decided against it. He just wanted to see if she really was coming into the city. Besides, in Ankh-Morpork the Law was...well, it wasn't exactly respected, but it was at least acknowledged, and he had no need to assert himself as Margolotta'd had to do in a place where Lore prevailed.
So here he was, hunched down in his greatcoat, helmet plonked on his head, eyes and cigar-ember showing, in the chill of the early autumn evening, waiting for a vampire to roll into his city and start making a mess.
There was no way Margolotta was not going to make a mess. She was that sort of person. The question was how big a mess, and who would have to clean it up.
The answer to the second part was, depressingly and invariably, Sam Vimes.
He didn't move, didn't even blink as the black carriage approached. Blended down into the shadows.
It was the same one she used in Uberwald, though there was an actual driver holding the reins now*. The same black horses.
* One of the many Igors who served the noble families of the mountains; you could tell this was Margolotta's because of the scar patterns, and the third eyebrow.
He'd known she was coming, he'd talked to his officers in the Sto Plains and had Angua pick up the news from the howl. But until he saw the carriage pull past, he hadn't wanted to believe it.
Godsdamned vampires!
***
Uberwald didn't really have a reigning government, nothing so formal as the Patricianship in Ankh-Morpork, but then Uberwald was quite a bit larger, and the rule of succession could sometimes get a little dicey when you stabbed your predecessor and then twenty minutes later he rose from the grave.
The big ruling families had, however, gotten together and managed to arrange for embassies in some of the plains cities nearby. Genua had one, and Ankh-Morpork hosted one for most of the Sto Plains. As an acknowledged goodwill ambassador from Uberwald -- though perhaps stretching the 'goodwill' part of the term just a touch -- Margolotta would stay in the embassy with Igor. The humans who ran the embassy had not been warned of this, and so had not been given time to make judicious purchases of holy water or garlic to carry about their person.
They all agreed that Milady was nice enough. She didn't have obscene amounts of luggage, she brought her own valet, and she didn't shout at anyone.
Twenty minutes after her arrival, a slightly nervous-looking young man arrived on the embassy doorstep bearing a gold-edged invitation. Margolotta accepted it and opened it, reading carefully. Her eyes darted up to the unlucky delivery man, over the edge of the card.
"Lordship says I was to wait for a reply," the man said promptly. Margolotta smiled, displaying even white teeth.
"Tell his Lordship I vill accept zer invitation und I look forward to seeing him at the reception," she said easily. The man nodded sharply and very nearly bolted from the room.
"I see my reputation precedes me," she murmured. Igor appeared from the shadows.
"Mithtreth, we're being watched," he said, opening a small carrying case and removing Margolotta's dinner, which it was wise not to examine too closely.
"The Commander? Oh yes. I vouldn't call it 'vatched'. Ve're being brooded upon. Let him have his fun," she said with a wave of the hand. "The poor man has to have something to occupy him. Now. Tomorrow evening there is to be a formal reception. I shall have a dress made here, in Ankh-Morpork; find me a fast seamstress und provide her vith the necessary information. Vhile you're at it, call in at the clacks tower and collect any messages. In the meantime..." she stretched, languidly, and grinned. "I have a dinner date."
***
In the office of the Times, people were panicking.
This was not an unusual occurrence. William de Worde, who had once valued his boring indoor job quite highly, now found himself living on a razor's edge of nerves that were fueled by coffee, terrible food, and over-work in large amounts. Somewhere, news was happening, and people were trying to mobilise to get out and capture it before it got away.
Otto, who had begun training other iconographers and was rather better at taking days off than his employer, was working busily in the basement office, arranging and re-arranging several sheets of iconographs for his first Ankh-Morpork show. It was soothing and, more importantly, it was out of the way of the running feet up above.
"My vord, vhat a busy place," someone said. A face appeared over his shoulder. "Oh, that von of the troll, that's very good, Otto."
"Margolotta!" Otto cried, turning to greet her with a broad grin. Two vampires, smiling at each other, is more teeth than ever ought to be in one place at one time. "I didn't know you vere in zer city! Straazti vilkomen!"
"Vangoi, Otto. Straazti bigun smela."
Otto laughed, and gave her a brief hug of welcome. "Vot brinks you to Ankh-Morpork? No vait -- " he held up a finger. "Diplomacy!"
"Some of us take pictures, some of us are in them," Margolotta answered. "I came at the kind invitation of the Patrician."
"Politics," Otto said delightedly. "You muszt let me take your picture -- "
"Oh, vait for tomorrow," she replied. "There is to be a big reception for the ambassadress from Ubervald. At the home of the Duke of Ankh."
Otto's grin, if it was possible, widened. "Zere never is!"
"Oh yes. Come, darling, ve must have dinner und discuss it. I hear zer kosher butcher's in Long Hogsmeat has vonderful atmosphere."
Otto laid down what he was doing and led the way up the stairs. "It iz our first ethnic restaurant!" he declared proudly, over the noise of the press. "Zough ve have much trouble gettink anyvon else to appreciate Ubervald delicacies!"
***
And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
--TS Eliot
FOUR: ASSASSINS
Editor's Note: One would expect that this chapter, written by a man trained by the Assassins' Guild, would come rather earlier in the treatise-cum-journal that the Patrician's Papers appears to be. However, as Lord Vetinari never apparently took contracts after graduation, it may be that his first encounter with true professional assassination did not occur until he was well invested in the politics of city life. If we take his age at the time of chapter three to be around twenty-one, it is logical to assume that "Assassins" falls somewhere between then and his ascension to the Patricianship at the surprisingly young age of thirty-two.
***
In the upper echelons of society, there is no room for pity or mercy and precious little for kindness. A boy raised from childhood to regard his school friends as potential competition, and who is encouraged to eliminate the competition through the most honourable way the Assassins' Guild teaches, is the sort of vicious predator which a politician must constantly guard against.
Fortunately, with education come ideals of honour and truth, and these are very useful tools if one manipulates them responsibly. For those who do not choose to follow the path of Guild Honour, the world can be a very interesting place and will probably remain so for far longer.
There are, in essence, two types of Assassins, excluding common murderers and brigands. There is the Idealist Assassin, and there is the Effective Assassin.
The Idealist Assassin is the ultimate creation of society. He is well-bred, well-spoken, he dances gracefully and plays at least one musical instrument. He speaks several languages, and is at home in any company. He moves silently, he anticipates his enemies' actions; he keeps abreast of local politics, though we may be rather overly charitable in assuming that he understands their significance.
The Effective Assassin is all of these things, but he differs from the Idealist in that he is not bounded by certain conventions which make the Idealist the social creature that he is.
At the Assassins' Guild -- and this is not a secret to anyone with eyes and anything resembling a brain -- boys are taught not only to fight and kill, but also to do it with honour. They are taught Rules, and they are taught them young enough that even if they wanted to, they could not break these rules later in life.
It behooves a parent who wishes their young child to have a thorough education to teach them before their early schooling that there are, contrary to popular belief, no Rules that cannot be broken. Law only works as long as the people allow it to work, and honour is only valid in novels and sagas. Very rarely, you will note, do honourable men survive their own romantic stories.
The Guild has a very strict code, which says that victims must be inhumed at close range, must be given a fighting chance, and must, if time allows, know the name of the Assassin and who has sent them.
With these three laws in mind, it is ridiculously easy for a thoughtful man to defend his own life.
Without these three laws, there would be chaos. Hence the scarcity of the Effective Assassin, for he is a dangerous man. In addition to disobeying the code, he must have been trained highly in the politics of his actions, which is what passes for morality amongst men who have rejected the morality of society. You cannot care that you have killed a father; you must care that you have killed a man whose son may someday come for you. You cannot care that you have killed a Patrician, but you must care about why.
The Effective Assassin holds himself to a stricter code than any the Guild could write, but it is his own and if he has honour, it is only the most truthful and painful honour of selflessness -- that he does not kill for his own gain, or if he does, it is because his gain helps the cause he has chosen. Protection of the city, say, or the end to a war, or the prevention of one. The Effective Assassin must, if he is to be more than a bloodthirsty tyrant, care only for something greater than himself. He would willingly sacrifice not only his life but his dignity, pride, and comfort should it be asked.
***
The grand ballroom of the Scoone Avenue Mansion had not been used, at least not often, since Sybil was a young girl and her father held hunting parties there. Old Lord Ramkin had been a sensible if rather boisterous man -- the Ramkins bred for intelligence and good health, unlike most of the nobility, who bred for power or money* -- and he had ensured that the grand ballroom was airy, well-lit, and opened onto the best possible view of the mansion grounds. Vetinari decided, idly, that he would have to ask Lady Sybil to host this sort of thing more often. Besides, Vimes' reaction to having the people he most despised gathered under his own roof was quite entertaining, and Lord Rust had already lost a good pair of shoes to one of Sybil's dragons, which in Vetinari's mind was days' worth of amusement.
* Oddly enough, however, the Ramkins remained the most powerful and richest family in the city; there is something to be said for being smart enough to manage your money, and healthy enough to be powerful by sheer force of size.
He was just about to murmur a word of political caution into Lord Venturi's ear -- something about not announcing his dislike of dwarvish food when several well-armed dwarves of the City Watch were in the room -- when Vimes' butler, Willikins, announced "Her Ladyship, ambassador Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald, of Bonk."
The Patrician noted with an inner smile that Willikins pronounced it "Beyonk".
Then Margolotta swept into the room, and it was difficult to notice anything else.
After several humorous encounters with the Seamstresses, Igor had finally given up and begun asking for Drethmakerth, which was marginally easier for him to pronounce, at any rate. When he finally found one that satisfied him, he'd given Margolotta's orders and measurements exactly, and the result was stunning.
It's pink, thought Vetinari. It's so very pink.
It was pink. It had a dark-red trim of bats around the bodice. She was wearing sensible flat dancing slippers, which were also pink. The dress itself was of the latest fashion, and flattered her immensely -- there were few things which didn't -- but its unnatural pinkness overwhelmed the senses.
Otto Chriek, who would normally have been taking iconos like mad, was on her arm. He'd joyfully donned traditional eveningwear for the occasion, but still wore the little smoked-lens glasses and had an iconograph-bag slung on one shoulder. Her dress actually gave his black suit pink highlights.
Vimes, for whom pinkness was immaterial, greeted her formally and sullenly after a gentle prod from his wife. Margolotta accepted the greeting and made her way into the crowds of people, most of whom were watching her. Otto gave her a pat on the hand and broke away, off to a corner to unpack and assemble his iconograph.
Vetinari lurked his way into a corner as well. He wanted to watch for a while longer before he spoke to Margolotta in public for...
For the first time ever.
He knew that people had carried rumours back to Ankh-Morpork about him and an Uberwald vampire -- first Rust and the Selachiis, all those years ago, and then the Watchmen who'd gone to Uberwald for the crowning of the Low King, had revived them. Not many people bothered with names, but some of the assembled nobles had been watching him like hawks all night and had either bothered very much indeed with names or made shrewd guesses.
Why should I care? he thought. I'm the Patrician of the bloody city. I can do as I please.
Won't be Patrician much longer, if you think like that. Or if you're involved with a vampire. People aren't much fond of them, even now.
Involved? That's ages past. I should think I would be able to say hello to an old acquaintance and political ambassador without starting rumours.
Nothing you do is that safe. Everything you do starts rumours. That's why you do half of it.
That's why you'll do this, he thought. And set his drink down on a passing server's tray, and moved through the crowds.
"Lady Margolotta," he said, his voice entirely even. She turned from her conversation with Captain Ironfoundersson, and smiled. "So good to see you again. Let me be the first to welcome you to Ankh-Morpork."
"Lord Vetinari! It has been too long," she answered graciously. "I'm afraid Mr. Chriek has already beaten you to the velcome, but your thought is appreciated. Vot a fine city it is, too. As ve say in Ubervald, schmeltzen lakier privvi*."
* Loosely translated, "It has an interesting odour."
Vetinari fought down a wry smile. "Yes, indeed. A poetic way to put it, I must say. Have you been to see many of the sights, yet?"
"Ach no, ve only arrived last night, und I vas quite exhausted from the journey. Tomorrow I plan many things. Otto isz to give me a tour of zer Times office, und then the nice Captain Carrot has offered to show me the Colossus of Morpork. I understand it is qvite the accomplishment."
Carrot, behind them, saluted. Vetinari nodded gravely.
"I hope you may find time to tour the Palace tomorrow, as well? The grounds are..." he searched momentarily for a word to describe the landscaping of Bloody Stupid Johnson. "...unparalleled. And the Palace itself has a small museum, and quite a lot of interesting architecture."
"You must be very proud of it."
"I did not build it, my Lady," he said calmly.
"No, but it is your home, is it not? All the city, really, is the home of the Patrician. And I am grateful that you have invited me into it so graciously."
He was about to reply with something appropriately inane, when the music began.
"Vill you dance, Lord Vetinari? Or should I ask zer gallant Captain?" she asked. His hesitation was microscopic; the dance was slow enough that he could plausibly get by without his cane, and the last thing he wanted was Margolotta spending any more time than necessary with Carrot. He wasn't sure who would win a battle of wits like that, but he was certain that he didn't want to find out.
"Do you think I've made an impression?" she asked, once they were weaving slowly in and out of the other dancers. He considered things.
"That depends on what sort of impression you wanted to make," he said. "It's a very...interesting dress, Margolotta. Made in the city?"
"Oh, yes. I know it is rather bright, but black and red are so expected of von. And you cannot say that it is a dress in vhich I could be inconspicuous."
"Certainly not. One might say it is alarmingly conspicuous." He tried not to concentrate on the familiarity of this feeling, even across the years -- Margolotta in his arms, her keen intellect digging into his own, exploring thoughts even he hadn't known he possessed. Either one, alone, would have been tolerable; the physical and mental combined would be dangerous, if he let them.
"It vas certainly alarmingly expensive," she continued.
"Ankh-Morpork makes the best, and we charge for it."
"Do you now?" she asked, with a small smile on her lips. They danced silently for a few moments.
"Why have you come to my city, Margolotta?" he asked quietly. "You can't run away from the question this time."
"I did not run avay last time. I answered truthfully. You invited me, so I came."
"You would not leave Uberwald, not right now, not because a man you once met invited you to."
"Vhen he is zer Patrician -- "
"No, Margolotta. Tell me. I will not be denied."
Margolotta's eyes danced. "You never vould be, as I recall."
"Let us leave history out of it, shall we?"
"But history is a part of it, Havelock," she said, and he felt her hand, on his shoulder, grip him in a strong, iron grasp. "Do not forget vot I am."
"Have you forgotten what I am?" he asked. "It is in your best interest, Margolotta, to recall that I have ruled this city for years, without help or guidance, and I know how to handle a woman."
Margolotta laughed, the laugh of a woman at a political gathering who's heard a relatively funny joke. "You certainly do know that," she replied. "But if ve both recall, I vos the von who taught you."
"Do you expect me to blush?"
"I rather hoped you vould. There's a first time for everything, after all."
"I will find out why you are here, through you or through other channels. It is easier for all concerned if I know. As long as it does not harm my city, I won't interfere."
"You've grown too used to city politics, Havelock. You are unable to take anyvon seriously vhen they tell the truth. I wrote to you because I vas reminded of you by zer Duke. I came here because you asked me to in your letters. If you didn't vant me here, you szhouldn't have asked."
"I have not said you were not welcome."
"No, you distinctly have not. At any rate, improving relations between Ankh-Morpork and Ubervald is merely a pleasant coincidence. I note that you have already put your own spin on things, vith your little rumour about the Schmaltzberg trade agreement going bitter."
"Sour," he corrected.
"Ach, forgive, I am not a native speaker," she said.
He looked at her, intently, while his mind cast back. They'd often spoken Uberwaldean to each other; he was fluent, and some ideas were more easily expressed in that language. He had tried, in his stupid naievete, to call her by some obscure endearment, but the translation had been rather awkward, and she'd laughed. Forgive, he'd said, I am not a native speaker...
I forgive, she'd said, and kissed him, and the conversation had come to a rather abrupt end.
"Zhraoi," he answered, before he could stop himself. I forgive.
The music ended, and she backed away, quickly, suddenly frightened by something in his eyes. He bowed, calmly.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady Margolotta," he said formally. "I look forward to seeing you at the Palace, tomorrow. Give your name to any guard, and they will make sure you are well looked-after."
***
Margolotta avoided him for the rest of the evening; she spent her time charming the other nobles, discussing politics, or dancing with one after another of the men of the upper-class, which did not gain her any points amongst the wives, but Margolotta didn't really have to care about wives, did she?
Vetinari, not to be outdone, spent most of his time in private conversations with various people, managing the city in ways that he could not achieve by sitting behind a desk and sorting papers. A tip here, a nod there, a rumour started or passed along to the right people...it all added up. He did it almost instinctively, after this long in office.
The carriage left him in the Palace courtyard, once the reception was over, and he nodded to the guards as he climbed the stairs up to his chambers. He almost expected Margolotta would be there waiting for him again, all things considered, but when he opened the door, only Wuffles sat patiently in the middle of the floor, and wagged his raggedy tail when he saw his master enter. Vetinari knelt and scratched the ill-tempered little terrier behind the ears.
A late dinner had been left for him on the table in the library, and he read through a fresh stack of reports as he ate, slipping Cook's gratuitous plate of sliced roast beef to Wuffles, who harried them energetically with the few teeth he had left. Nothing too dangerous in the evening reports; one or two political matters that would have to be attended to, possibly employing the Metaphorical Scorpion Pit, but he did so enjoy threatening people without actually making threats. He left a note for the guards to be informed that Lady Margolotta would be visiting the Palace on the following day; he answered a brief letter from the king of Pseudopolis, including his next move in the chess game they were carrying on by correspondence (checkmate to Vetinari in twelve moves, but the lad was improving). He pondered whether or not Wuffles would eat the letter from the Thieves' Guild, asking for a rise in crime, if it was soaked in enough au jus.
He spent several minutes staring out the windows, letting the day's events -- both at the reception, and in the city at large -- tumble around in his mind.
Long ago, when he was younger, his mother had taught him a game called Find the Levers. It was a systematic way of understanding an opponent and deciding how best to deal with said opponent. Over time, it had become such second-nature that he rarely called it that anymore; he simply did it without a thought. These days, he played it not just against people, but against a collective city, and he didn't bother to keep score because if he was losing, he was out of a job, and very possibly a life.
It hadn't worked very well on Margolotta.
It still didn't.
Oh, dear...
***
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed."
--TS Eliot
FIVE: CONTROL
Editor's Note: There are many rumours surrounding Vetinari's appointment to Patrician. Whether or not he did indeed arrange for it, it is almost certain that he expected it to occur, sooner or later.
In Chapter Five we see the fully-developed literary voice of still-young Havelock Vetinari, an intellectual voice devoid of its earlier romanticism and yet, at the same time, showing a thorough understanding of it. There is no doubt in the Editor's mind that this chapter was written either during or shortly after Vetinari's rise.
There is one apocryphal anecdote that states he spent his first night as Patrician writing, after which he destroyed the papers he had written. Certain singed scraps have appeared, over the years, claiming to be the Patrician's lost writing; none have ever even had their claims acknowledged by the Palace. Perhaps, undestroyed, Chapter Five may be considered the lost writings that were supposedly burnt so long ago.
***
But wait.
Why read about control?
When one has the power to read about so much more.
Burn it? His first writings in office? Not unless he had to...
There is a book, on Lord Havelock Vetinari's bookshelf -- one of many in his private library. A dreary volume on civic planning in Quirm. And inside, an envelope still addressed though never sent, with the dual wax seals of the Patrician and the family Vetinari. Heavy paper, the kind he still uses for personal correspondences -- not that he's had many, in recent years. Nor is this a recent letter. It has been pressed flat by too much time between pages, and the ink has begun to fade, but it is still oh, so legible.
Its existence has been all but forgotten. It was a long time ago, after all, and he was a different man.
***
Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician
On the eve of his ascension to office
To Margolotta von Uberwald
Zer Castle
Bonk, Uberwald
My own Margolotta:
Is it not shocking? Will you not be surprised? No, you of all people will not be, though my acquaintances in the city most certainly will. Havelock Vetinari? That timid, quiet young man? Patrician? Surely not, why would they appoint such a wet blanket as Vetinari? Or perhaps they will call me a nutter. I would think the two would be mutually exclusive, but I have learned never to underestimate the general population.
The answer is, of course, that I have been appointed because those doing the appointing think they can control me, which is an illusion I have quite carefully maintained as I pulled their own highly visible strings. They think I will make an elegant, scandal-less figurehead. After all, am I not an ascetic? I eat little, I sleep little, I do not have a whisper of rumour about me -- except the carefully concealed ones they keep as blackmail, about my visits to Rosemary Palm's house of...oh, what a quaint phrase she has! Negotiable affection. If they knew that I go only in search of a quiet place to study, if they knew Rosie was an ally, they might be slightly more afraid. In the morning, they will see.
I have never known a time when I did not love my city. I have planned for this day all my years, it seems to me, but now that it is here, I come to understand that I have been playing at a game of soldiers, that my ambitions and plans have been an entertainment. Like my adolescent pastimes of tormenting Cyril de Worde (surely you remember Cyril? Tall boy, ridiculously obsessed with truth-telling? He has two sons now. I fear they will be either painfully honest or extremely good liars).
It has all been nothing more than a pastime. Some men breed horses, but I couldn't be a normal man, could I? I had to breed the perfect coup instead. Can I now live up to the ideals of the man I pretended to be?
I do not complain, I have taken this on myself. In ten years, mark you, we will be a force to be reckoned with, across the Disc. I know how I shall do this. The delicious anticipation is in actually accomplishing it. It is as taking a test, when you know you will pass; there is an enjoyment about it. But there is also a great fear, a great longing for a life in which nothing is more important than what cravat I should wear to the next dance.
Joyous day, I shall never have to wear a cravat again. The robes of office are quite severe, and do not allow for much decoration. They look rather like something that belongs to a wizard too cheap to buy proper robes and -- once they have been fitted to me -- I suspect too cheap to feed himself properly, either.
I could write to you all night. With you there need not be an order to my thoughts. With you, I need not explain unless I wish to. How can it be that a vampire in Uberwald who has never set foot in Ankh-Morpork is the only one who could ever keep step with me? How can it be that you, who sacrificed the life worth living for Tradition, still understand me better than the keenest political rival I have in the city? In nearly ten years I have never found a woman worthy of competition with you. Some may be favourably compared, but none have surpassed your wit and intellect. But your flaw, Margolotta, is that you refuse the life I embrace. So until one of us falters...
Perish the thought.
I remain in some part, yours,
Havelock Vetinari
Patrician
***
For any other man, the morning's work might have been difficult; some of it might have seemed trifling. The anticipation of Margolotta's arrival at the Palace would have thrown our hypothetical Otherman into fits of impatience. But Havelock Vetinari, who had calmly waited through a war for the right time to strike, who had spent hours attempting to hold coherent conversations with Leonard of Quirm, and who on a daily basis read more useless information than the Times' Society Page editor, was not Otherman.
It was a fine day, only a trifle too hot, but the Oblong Office remained cool and dim as he attended to the duties of the morning. There were complaints, always of course, and reports from spies, and petitions for various laws to be enacted. He set one or two of the petitions aside for Drumknott, who had begun a wall in the clerks' anteroom devoted to the choicest suggestions, among them the Seagull Ban from last Tuesday and the Regulation Of Rain Act from sometime last year -- that one had actually been quite popular, and several hundred people had damply signed it, Sir Samuel Vimes amongst them (though he was sure Vimes' signature had a sarcastic air about it).
Only a man as attuned to his masters' moods as Drumknott might have noticed that the Patrician grew increasingly brusque as the day wore on. But Drumknott was busy, and the other clerks were far too afraid of Vetinari's sarcasm at the best of times, to notice an increase in it on this particular day.
By evening, he was downright sharp. It went very hard for the prisoners at the afternoon's sentencings; they'd still have gotten the same punishments, more or less, but, as they say, it's all in the delivery.
Sentencing had traditionally required the Patrician to wear a blindfold, to prove that justice was blind; several past Patricians, quicker on the uptake than their much more short-lived fellows, had been quite imaginative in their methods of concealing eyeholes in the blindfolds. Vetinari, who knew that justice was never blind but understood the human need for symbols, had chosen to do away with the blindfold, and instead wore a close-fitting black cap. He removed it as he stepped back into the Oblong office, smoothing down his hair and picking up his pen. The sun had already set, and candles had been lit at his desk.
And Margolotta had not come to the Palace.
"I believe I shall work late this evening, Drumknott," he said, as the clerk followed him into the office. "Have dinner brought in around nine, if you would."
"I'm afraid there's one more appointment today," Drumknott said. He tried to appear as small as possible.
"I am not interested in any more appointments," Vetinari snapped, uncharacteristically.
"Yes, sir, but you did say Lady Margolotta was to be shown up, if she came," Drumknott answered carefully*. "She was very insistent, sir."
* It was one of those little moments when the correct phraseology meant the difference between a comfortable life as Vetinari's head clerk, and a comfortable but rather shorter life as a marksmanship target.
Vetinari froze.
One finger tapped idly on his desk.
"It would not do to ruin diplomatic relations," he muttered. "Show her in, then."
It wasn't pink, but Margolotta had certainly embraced the concept of 'tourist'. She wore a brightly decorated straw sun-hat, which she removed when she walked into the office. Her dress was vividly patterned with large flowers*. In deference to her Uberwaldean heritage, they were red and black.
* What appeared to be flowers, anyhow. It was best not to examine them too closely.
Somehow, though, she pulled it off. The flowers, the sun-hat, the pink, all of it. He'd give quite a lot of money to know how.
"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," she said. Drumknott accepted the hat, bowed, and left the room.
"Good evening, Lady Margolotta," he replied. "Have you had an entertaining day?"
"Oh, it vos all right. There are certainly lots of things to see. I vill have to acquire some gargoyles for zer castle, I think; they do add such a decorative touch to any building. I shall have Igor locate some who vould like the chance to travel." She seated herself across the desk from him, and folded her hands in her lap complacently. "Und how goes the ruling of the city?"
"It has not fallen into chaos. One might call it a good day," he replied. "We had expected you rather earlier than this."
"Yes, I know. I had to spend all day vith that valking Guide Book to Ankh-Morpork, in order to time this right," Margolotta said. His expression did not change. She tried again. "Vill you not at least invite me to dinner for my trouble?"
"Dinner?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to recall once being asked to show Willing, and responding that "willing" did not translate to "neck" in Morporkian..."
"Shocking!" she laughed. "Surely you have some blutvurst about the place?"
"I imagine so. And certainly, since night has now fallen and Ankh-Morpork can be dangerous for a woman alone in the city, one ought to extend every courtesy," he said thoughtfully. "Lady Margolotta, will you stay to dinner? I understand an underdone roast might be arranged."
"I vould be charmed, Lord Vetinari," she replied, graciously. He rose, and offered her his arm. He was perfectly composed when she took it. Perfectly composed.
There was a flurry of movement down the hall, as they began a leisurely walk toward the State Dining Room, which was used for formal occasions, and had one of those ridiculously long tables, with an ornate thronelike chair at the head. He knew, though he could not see, that the clerks were rushing to lay linens and silver for them. Undoubtedly someone had been sent down to tell cook to prepare something appropriate for Lady Margolotta. It had taken some little time, to organise the household this efficiently, but any man who could not run a Palace and set a decent table on short notice didn't deserve to be given the responsibility for a city. By the time they reached the dining room, it was laid with dinner service for two and several candelabras.
"Dinner will be ready shortly, sir," said an impeccably-dressed clerk, appearing at his elbow as he pulled Lady Margolotta's chair out for her on one side of the enormous head throne, then seated himself across from her. "A course of soup, steak tartare for the lady, and the usual for yourself, sir?"
"Yes, thank you," Vetinari said dismissively. The clerk vanished, politely.
"And vot is your usual?" Margolotta asked. "Roast pheasant? Stalled ox?"
"I'm afraid you have a romantic idea of what a Patrician ought to eat," he answered. "It is Thursday, is it not? I believe the entree for tonight is sliced fresh bread, with marmalade, and perhaps some walnuts if I am particularly hungry."
"Valnuts? That's all?"
"I like walnuts," he replied, unconcerned. "And the soup, of course, because there is company. Tomato, I believe."
There was a salad, too, as it turned out. Vetinari picked at it. Food which was green made him vaguely suspicious.
He was, however, past master at the art of meaningless conversation. He heard Margolotta's account of the Colossus of Morpork and the Dwarf Bread Museum, with its 'splendid replica of the Scone of Stone -- von might almost think it vas the real thing'. He told her some of the history of the Palace, when she asked. She was quite good at small talk, too. He wondered why they bothered. Surely, if they were going to fill the room with nothing of worth, it would be more pleasant to eat in silence?
Perhaps not, he thought, as she laughed at some meaningless little joke he'd made.
"Now, it is far too dark to szee the gardens, but you must show me -- you mentioned there is a museum in the Palace?" said Margolotta, daintily finishing her meal. "I am sure it vould be most edifying."
"Certainly," he said, and again took her arm, and again led her through the Palace, his Palace, down the steps and through the throne room.
The museum of the Palace was small, and devoted mostly to portraits, sculptures, and important documents of previous Patricians. Margolotta was particularly interested in a painting of The Death Of Lord Winder; it took her but two minutes to find the dark black shadow, sword-in-hand, which Vetinari had asked Leonard to "add" to the painting recently. There was a striking bust of Mad Lord Snapcase; it was unnerving how one eye appeared to follow you around the room, while the other appeared to turn crazily in its socket.
There were several framed letters, behind the bust. Margolotta looked at them with interest.
"Snapcase's correspondence. Some of it, at any rate. I find it instructional. He was a master at the art of the casual letter," Vetinari said, standing behind her. "You would never think, to read some of them, that he was stark raving mad."
"Yes...letters rarely betray our true feelings," she said. "They are so...orderly."
"Do you find them so? It is far more difficult to retract or twist a statement, once it has been written and sent. Not, perhaps, a pure honesty, but of a sort -- one can hold a man to the words he's written."
He wondered what he'd said that made her tense; after a moment, she sighed. "Is that vhy you never wrote, Havelock?"
The question badly disarmed him. It had been a long time since someone asked him a question he wasn't expecting.
Or didn't know the answer to.
"I...no. No, that was not the reason. I had not thought of the honesty of the written word, when we first...met," he said. "Or if I had, I was not conscious of it."
"That vould have been an acceptable reason, though," she said, still staring at the maniacally even handwriting of the late Lord Snapcase. "I could have been happy if I had thought it."
"I am sorry I did not lie to you, then."
"Oh, don't be petty, Havelock." Margolotta turned to face him.
"Petty?" he asked, in a low tone.
"I did not ask you to lie to me. I merely said that it vould have pleased me to know. It vould have been better zan thinking zat you did not write because you did not vant to."
He gave her a rare smile. "Why I did or did not -- "
"Do not szay it is not important. It iz important. Vhy did you not write me?"
Anger overrode caution, and oh gods! When had that last happened? "What more was there to say?" he asked. "I was nineteen years old, Margolotta. I was and am quite human, you know. I have not had three hundred years in which to learn not to -- "
He was ready for the swing, when it came, but not for the unearthly strength behind it. He could have ducked, but that would have endangered the Bust of Snapcase, and he hated it when people destroyed art. The ringing slap of her open hand hitting his defensively raised arm echoed in the tiny room.
For a second, he thought she might have broken his wrist.
"How dare you!" she demanded. "How dare you sztand zere in your black robes und your smug grin and szay zat because I vos older zan you I felt nozzing!"
"You hurt me," he said, calmly, moving his hand and rubbing the heel of his palm. "Imagine what you could have done to my jaw with a slap like that."
"You really believe zat is true, Havelock? Zat I did not feel anyzing for you?" she asked, heedless of his tacit warning that this was venturing into uncharted waters, and it was best to return to the mundane.
"Come now, Margolotta. I know that you have a gothic sensibility, and it is charming in its place, but it was one week. Only a little over five days."
"Und yet you can say to me zat you know vot I vos feeling?"
He hesitated. She had a point. He had simply assumed, she'd had so many more years than he in which to...well, to do what she did best, which was be a vampire. She'd told him, back then, that the Uberwald vampires were known for their hospitality, a very specific brand that did indeed interest the sort of young explorer that Havelock Vetinari was not.
"I had never met a man like you in centuries of life," she hissed. "For you I controlled my hungers and listened to your voice, I told you anyzing I knew about anyzing you asked. Nineteen! No vonder you rule Ankh-Morpork now! Vhen you vere a boy you could have had vot you vanted from anyone."
"I have what I wanted," he said coldly, because her words were beginning to frighten him. "I have my city."
"Your city hasz you!" cried Margolotta. "You have nozzink, Havelock! A few books, a dog, a nice office, that'z not a life. That'z juszt an existence. Control is fine in its place, but it's just as much -- "
" -- an addiction," he answered, suddenly gripping her elbow and pulling her close. "You think I don't know that? You think I, who have sacrificed you and everything else for the city, don't know that? But I don't regret it! Not one bloody minute of it!"
A small portion of his mind registered that he was shouting, and in this palace someone almost certainly could hear him. Another small portion registered that it was ridiculous to have a lovers' quarrel under the watchful eyes of several mad former Patricians, and this ought to be taken up elsewhere, and at another time.
He ignored both.
"Damn you, Margolotta! You come here after all this time and you do this to me? I had excuses then! I was young, I was stupid -- "
"You vere attracted to me. You sztill are," she answered, and suddenly he saw the calm that he normally had, in her eyes. He froze.
This is how they feel, he thought. Everyone who's looked across the desk at me since I became Patrician. This is how all of them feel. Like a thunderstorm that's suddenly come face to face with the black apocalypse. Like an ant on a battlefield. When you feel the rage well up in you and you look into those eyes and they're desperately, terrifyingly calm and knowing...
"You veren't stupid. You've never been young. You vere in love, Havelock. Zese things do happen," she said softly. "It's not my fault ve only had a veek together. Another month or two and you'd have figured it out."
He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against hers. "Then why didn't you write to me, Margolotta? The roads go both ways."
"I didn't know it either, you arrogant bastard," she answered. He could feel her breath on his cheeks. "How vas I to know I loved you? You barely gave me time to think. And then there vere the years, there vos the politics, there vos too much to do. For both of us."
"I belong to the city. You know that. You wouldn't be happy. Neither of us would."
"You said that tventy-five years ago. You vere frightened then, too."
"Frightened? You talk to me about frightened, Margolo -- " he had to stop. She used to try that trick on him when he was getting pompous...
He had to stop because she was kissing him.
And then he was glad he'd stopped, because he was drowning in her kiss.
And then he didn't want to stop at all. For anything.
Even for his city.
He felt her sharp incisors graze his lips, and her body press itself to him, oh so familiar. She felt so small when he put his arms around her like this -- a woman composed entirely of curves and soft surfaces, but solid as rock underneath.
"Havelock," Margolotta murmured, into his mouth. "Vot vere you sayink?"
"I don't recall," he answered, distracted by the feeling of her hands on his chest, his jaw. "It can't have been very important..."
Continue to the next part
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I think a backslash small tag or two got left unclosed.
(Just thought you would ant to know.)
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Lovely story so far, by the by!
I am enjoying it immensely!
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oh, lovely
(Anonymous) 2008-09-16 03:44 am (UTC)(link)Of course, when we grow to adulthood we sensibly and logically outgrow the irrational fear of the different. My word, yes. But we always recall reputation, and if we know a dog has bitten our hand once, we hesitate to strike it a second time. Soon enough, the dog will be left to its devices with hardly a thought for when, or how hard, the original bite was....
"...It is best to cultivate one dangerous habit, as a politician; it proves to the populace that ruthlessness may extend to them, if they are not careful. A small foible, such as an intense, burning hatred of street performers, can frighten even the most deadly of adversaries into hesitation."
Is this the root of the rumors/accounts that Vetinari hates mimes? Is there a story here of child Vetinari stabbing a mime? If there is, please, please write it!!!
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XOXOXOXO