Dame Rumour, 3 of 3; PG, Vetinari/OFC.

[sam_storyteller]

"Ook! Eek."

"I don't like it either!" Vimes hissed, staring through a gap in a bookshelf at the empty floor directly beneath the great dome of the library of Unseen University, the most magical library anywhere in the Disc. The Librarian was peering anxiously down at them from his perch near the top of the shelf. "Listen, man -- "

"Ook."

"Ape, right, this is a matter of national security, so you can bloody well serve the badge for once."

The Librarian had dug out the old Watch badge, given to him by Carrot several years ago, and hung it around his neck on a strap of leather, proudly. But that didn't mean he liked people spying on other people in his library. It bothered the books. He dangled, making soft burping noises to calm them.

"Might as well do it properly," Ridcully was saying, on the other side of the shelves. "Someone fetch the dribbly candles. He hates it when we don't go through the motions, at least."

Vimes scowled. "Are we going to survive this?" he asked Angua. She shrugged.

"We may not even see him when he does show up. Sus -- erm, my source says that sometimes people don't."

Vimes thought back to Uberwald, when he was being chased by Angua's family, who were not as kind and understanding about the existence of regular human beings as she was. He'd hallucinated that Death was sitting in the boat with him. At least, he'd put it down to hallucinations. Cops don't like to think that a seven foot skeleton dressed in black could be roaming their streets with impunity. Dealing with the normal citizens of Ankh-Morpork was bad enough without anthropomorphic personifications dropping in to tea.

On the other side of the bookcase, the wizards began to chant.

***

Death sat in his study. His eyes glowed.

BUT WHAT DOES IT DO? he asked. Albert pursed his lips.

"It's all down to physics an' somethin'," he said.

IS IT A SORT OF GARDEN ORNAMENT?

"I don't think so, Master."

The object on the table in front of Death appeared to be a bubble made of glass. It sat on a small pedestal of black stone, and a rod apparently made of the same black stone thrust up into the bubble about halfway. When left to itself, blue light crackled around the black rod, almost too dim to see.

Death put a bony hand out and touched one finger to the glass. Instantly, a bolt of blue light shot out from the rod and attached itself to the inside of the glass, just on the other side of where his finger was. He touched another finger to the glass, and a second bolt of light shot out. When he put an entire hand on it, several dozen lines of light appeared, connecting the rod and his hand.

DOES IT MAKE NOISE? OR POSSIBLY COOK THINGS? LOOK, IF I TAKE MY HAND AWAY...

"Dunno sir. I seen 'em in shops in Ankh-Morpork. I think they're just supposed to...er, be pretty. And teach kiddies Science," Albert added disapprovingly. He didn't like Science. It got in the way of good old-fashioned magic. A thought occurred to him. "Young Susan bring it in, did she?"

NO. IT APPEARED IN THE HALL OF HOURGLASSES. Death prodded the glass again. HOW INTERESTING. UNLESS SOMEONE IS AROUND TO SEE AND TOUCH IT, IT DOESN'T EXIST.

"Right corker for the atheists, I guess."

SORRY?

"All that believing only in stuff you can touch."

I FAIL TO SEE YOUR POINT, ALBERT.

"Worl, it's sort of like...it's something that you can see an' touch, but it doesn't exist."

OH, said Death, whose sense of irony was not finely-tuned.

"Has it got a name on it?"

Death examined the base, carefully. IT APPEARS TO SAY MARISIA -- OH, BUGGER...

"Marisia O. Bugger? I feel sorry for that -- " Albert stopped. Death had vanished.

***

Sam Vimes had lived a long and colourful life, and while he was a good man, generally speaking, the word 'blameless' could really only be applied to said life with very strong glue. He had probably broken a few of the stricter religions' commandments in his time, though he usually had a good reason, such as self-defence or pre-emptive paranoia. In cases where he didn't, well, he had a sharp sword, which is decent second to 'good reason'.

He didn't think he had done anything that would earn him the serious hot seat in any given afterlife, but even a man with Captain Carrot's good-behaviour record doesn't like to see Death up close and personal.*

* In a way, it could be said that Death was the ultimate copper. Everyone everywhere goes into a mental checklist of all the illegal things they could possibly have done or be doing, when they see a policeman; it's part of humanity's vast insecurity complex. When face to face with Death, all the little sins of a lifetime accumulate into a list right behind the eyeballs, which we pray like hell that nobody else can see. In reality, of course, neither Death nor the Police care that we stole a candy-bar when we were eight, but they know that we care, and that's where the trouble usually starts.

Next to him, Angua was growling anxiously. The Librarian hid behind them.

The wizards, standing in a circle, were looking quite smug.

YOU COULD TELL ME BEFORE YOU DO THAT, Death said, in an irritable voice. KNOCK BEFORE YOU OPEN THE DOOR TO UNSEEN DIMENSIONS, ET CETERA. AND NONE OF THAT 'FOUL DEMON' STUFF. I WON'T BE HAVING THAT.

"Good to see you looking so well, y'honour," Ridcully said. He'd had experience with these things. "How's the young lady?"

Vimes looked at Angua and mouthed 'Young lady?'. She shook her head.

FINE, FINE, Death said testily. I HAVEN'T GOT ETERNITY, YOU KNOW.

There was a pause.

WELL, OBVIOUSLY I HAVE GOT ETERNITY, BUT NOT TO HANG AROUND HERE.

"Just a few questions," Ridcully answered smoothly. "About the Woman."

WHAT WOMAN?

"Madam Gumboni. She's going to marry the Patrician," supplied Ponder Stibbons, his voice cracking.

YOU SUMMON ME HERE FOR...GOSSIP? Death asked, with icy politeness. The wizards looked mildly embarrassed.

"There's somethin' not right about her," said Ridcully darkly. Death's fingerbones clicked as he tapped his, for want of a better word, chin.

MARISIA GUMBONI, I SUPPOSE.

"What's wrong with her?" the Dean asked, cautiously. Death appeared to be considering things.

SHE EXISTS...AND SHE DOES NOT EXIST, he said finally.

"I knew it!" Vimes whispered. The Librarian's large, leathery hand clamped over his mouth.

"I saw folks dancin' with her," Ridcully said, to nobody in particular. "She seems real enough."

NO. SHE EXISTS ONLY BECAUSE THERE ARE PEOPLE TO SEE HER EXIST.

"What, like a God? On account of belief?"

SHE IS NOT VISIBLE BECAUSE PEOPLE BELIEVE IN HER; PEOPLE BELIEVE IN HER BECAUSE SHE HAS BEEN MADE VISIBLE. Another pause. ER. I THINK.

Several of the wizards scratched their heads.

"Is that a conundrum?" Ponder asked hesitantly. Death turned to look at him.

IT IS A FACT.

"That's not very helpful, beggin' your pardon," Ridcully continued.

DO YOU REMEMBER THE EATER OF SOCKS, ARCHCHANCELLOR?

"Well, of course, that was last Hogswa..." The Archchancellor suddenly grew very thoughtful. "It's all that extra belief sloshin' around again, is it?"

YES.

"Only this time, right, instead of imaginary monsters, it's this... woman?"

I BELIEVE SO.

Vimes pounded Angua on the shoulder, triumphantly. His eyes rolled, above the Librarian's silencing hand. She was pursing her lips.

The Patrician, she mouthed. He nodded. Both of them looked as if they might be ill.

***

It was midnight. Death had gone off to do whatever it was he did. The wizards had gone to a late dinner. The Librarian had gone to chip up the candle dribblings they'd left behind.

A very nervous Angua and a chain-smoking Vimes, both ominously silent, worked their way back to the Watch House, on automatic pilot, while trying to figure out what to do next.

Carrot was there, with cocoa, waiting for them.

"I heard him talking about it, a few months ago," Vimes said, gloomily, when things had been explained to the Captain. He was aware of just how much better the cocoa would be if there was a good stiff shot of alcohol in it somewhere. Or even if it was a mug of alcohol with a shot of cocoa. He wasn't picky. "Ridcully was going on about how you get a lot of spare belief around, on account of the Hogfather, or some idiocy like that. And Vetinari asked him where it all went, and he said that nobody knew. He had a theory that the gods got hold of it, somehow."

"Wouldn't put it past Vetinari to get a jump on the gods," Angua agreed.

"It was very clever of him," Carrot said thoughtfully. They looked at him, surprised. "Well, all those things everyone's saying...about him settling down and all. If you've got to get married, wouldn't it be best if you married someone that you'd, erm, that you'd designed yourself? That's how he'd see it."

"He didn't exactly build her or anything. Not like an Igor," Vimes answered. "It's not like him to muck about with magic. Vetinari gets really sarcastic when the wizards give the fabric of reality a good tug."

"So do you, sir."

"Yes, but I didn't magic up a bride for myself, did I? I went and found someone and got married in a normal fashion."

Angua and Carrot exchanged an amused look. Vimes' marriage, while undoubtedly accomplished in the traditional way, was anything but normal.

"What do we do about it?" Angua finally asked.

"I don't know," Vimes answered frankly. "Carrot?"

"Don't see why we've got to do anything. I mean, technically it's not against the law. Unless you count falsifying government documents. I suppose it's a crime to marry someone if they don't exist." Carrot thumbed through his well-read copy of the Laws and Ordinanfes of Ankh and Morpork. "Yes. But only if he's doing it for the purposes of tax-evasion."

"If we arrest him on tax-evasion, we'll have to arrest half the city," Angua pointed out.

"I'd give a big clock to know how he rigged it," mused Vimes. "I mean, for the gods' sake, William de Worde had a file on her."

"If the newspaper prints it, it must be true," Carrot said thoughtfully.

"Well, she's here now," Vimes said finally. "Time enough to deal with this in the morning. I'm knackered, and I'm going home."

"Goodnight, sir," Angua and Carrot chorused, as Vimes pulled on his coat and stepped out into the misty Ankh-Morpork night. Angua glanced up at Carrot, who had an absent expression on his face.

"Would you rather have a perfect woman than a real one, Carrot?" she asked. He smiled, without looking at her.

"My dad always says that if it's perfect, it's useless," he said. "I don't think he means women, but I guess that's about right."

The most unsettling thing, Vimes thought as he trudged towards home, was the way Death had seemed to look through the shelves, just before he'd vanished. One of the blue lights in that brightly polished skull had flickered, for a split second, right at him.

***

In another part of the city, which may, in its own way, be considered another world...

A dark figure, hunching down against the spitty mist that was hanging over the city, kicked his way through the slurry on the streets. He was not a happy man. He had been a man for only a short time, and already he knew that he was distinctly Not Happy. It'd taken all of his newly-created willpower not to leap out from behind a bookshelf and throttle someone.

"Did you see that?" he said to the sky. This behaviour might have attracted attention, despite the fact that it was happening in the Shades, but it was a chilly night and even the miscreants were staying in. "Did you bloody hear what he told them?"

He didn't expect a heavenly reply -- gods usually don't listen to mortals, and almost never answer -- but he didn't need a reply. He knew what the reply was going to be. Of course we heard. So did you. What're you going to do about it?

"I tell you what I'm going to do about it, I'm going to break it up, that's what. Oho, not Death. Death's not worth my time. But that one! He's a mortal! He's not even a young heroic type! He's just some old bugger who happens to be a little clever. Well, I tell you what, blow that for a lark. I'm not lettin' that happen." He trembled with righteous anger as he walked along. "Puttin' one over on the gods. Ha!"

On Cor Celesti, which was almost literally another world, the assembled gods looked down on their emissary with concern.

"I said we shouldn't put a little bit of everyone in," said Io. "I did say. Poor bloke doesn't know whether he's a vengeance god or a mad oracle."

"Least he knowwlss he's a he," said Bast, scratching herself with one claw. "I mean, therrre's been worrrse avatarrrrs than hrrim."

"Yeth, but ith he going to do anything utheful?" Offler the Crocodile God asked. "Or ith he jutht going to walk about like an idiot talking to the thky?"

Below them, the man continued to rant. "Belief, huh? I'll give them belief. First the Believer. Then the insolent mortal. That'll take care of her. In front of everyone."

When men use words like Insolent and talk to the sky, there's only one way things can go.

***

The next day was Hogswatchnight, and the city was strung tighter than an Assassin's piano-wire. It wasn't just Vetinari's impending nuptials, either. Say what you like about the winter holidays, it's the very best season for domestic homicides.

Most of the Watch officers patrolling the streets were dwarves and trolls -- species that didn't have much truck with Hogswatch anyway. After all, to a troll, a sausage is just a way of giving C.M.O.T. Dibbler something to occupy his time. To a dwarf, the idea of giving someone a gift when you don't know what they're going to give you* is just one more illustration of the homo sapiens' lack of grip.

* For instance, what if you got Snori Shieldsmasher a big bag of gold, and all he gave you was a slightly smaller bag of gold? Dwarves aren't very imaginative gift-givers, by and large.

Sybil was quite proud of Sam. He managed to escape the Watch house by noon. And while, yes, he was a bit broody on the fact that on Hogswatchday he'd have to stand up in front of a good quarter of Ankh-Morpork while wearing the hated Duking outfit and watch Vetinari get married to a woman who didn't exist, he still managed to keep at least most of his mind in the present. Just currently, after dinner, on the presents.

The Hogswatch tree, which was nearly twelve feet high, had been decorated in red bows, white candles, and lots of glass balls with bright colours painted on. Vimes was never sure how things like this happened; he certainly didn't order it, and while Sybil might, he couldn't imagine how she would ask Wilikins, who was elderly and unflappably dignified, to arrange for a large, sap-covered, spiky-leafed tree to be butchered, brought inside, and decorated.

Vimes was an outdoor sort of person, and thought trees ought to be outdoors too.

The presents piled beneath it already formed a sort of mountain of wrapping paper and ribbons. Sybil was a big-hearted woman, and liked gift-giving. There were presents for the servants, for Vimes, from Vimes for Sybil; presents for friends who would be dropping by, for friends who might be dropping by without warning, and for young Sam. Lots for young Sam, most of which would be useless to a child who couldn't yet tell the difference between baby food and his own foot, but the joy, so Vimes had learned from Hogswatch cards, was in the giving.

Sybil ought to be just about the most joyous woman on the Disc, if that was the case.

"Sam? Are you in here? I've just brought some eggnog -- I won't tell you what they put in it, but it ends up tasting all right, I suppose." Sybil appeared in the doorway, and smiled. "It's rather like drinking a spice rack."

"Hm?" He glanced up from his survey of the presents, and nodded. "Thank you, dear."

"Still thinking about tomorrow?" she asked, setting the tray down and sinking into an armchair. "You'll do fine, Sam. As long as you don't forget the rings. Where are they?"

"On top of the dresser in the black velvet box," Vimes said dutifully.

"I think it's frightfully exciting. Do you know, most of the people I've spoken to don't think he'll go through with it? They think it's down to politics," Sybil added.

"Oh, I don't know..." Vimes tried the nog, tentatively. "I think -- my gods, is it supposed to be like this?"

"I'm sure cook made it exactly as it's supposed to be," Sybil answered. She hadn't touched her own glass. He set his down carefully, as if it might explode.

And then it did.

His first move was to knock Sybil out of the chair and onto the ground; this was not a great improvement, since the arrow that had broken the window and knocked the glass over was on fire, and merrily starting a warm crackling flame in the middle of the carpet. He grabbed the other glass of nog and threw it on the fire, beating the remaining embers down with the tray. Sybil was shaking.

"YOU BASTARD!" Vimes shouted. This was not, on reflection, the smartest move he could have made.

His crossbow was in the umbrella rack by the door -- and to send an arrow through solid glass, they had to be using a one-shot.

Not an Assassin, then, just a plain old homicidal lunatic. Damn.

Several servants, alerted by the noise, arrived in the doorway just in time for a second arrow -- this one mercifully unlit -- to come whizzing into the room, a few inches above Vimes' right ear. He growled.

"Hogswatchnight! You'd think they could put it off for two damn days! Get out of the doorway!" he yelled at the servants, who were staring at the window in stunned surprise. They scattered, hopefully to do something sensible like fetch a Watchman.

You're a Watchman, said the slightly mad little voice in his head. He glanced at Sybil.

"Don't move," he said quietly, and rolled for the doorway. It took a few minutes to load a one-shot, and they were hell to cock. An arrow shuddered into the doorframe just as he reached it.

In the hallway, he didn't even seem to move from the door to the rack; he was simply in one place, and then in another. The bow was cocked, safety on, quarrels ready. He slotted one in and slammed the safety off.

If it were any other place, if he had Carrot or even Colon here, he'd nip around outside and nick the bastard where he stood. But Sybil was in that room.

He spun through the doorway, got off a shot that arced through the broken window into the darkness beyond, and pressed his shoulderblades against the frame. "Sybil, run. Now."

She didn't need telling. She was out the door and in the hallway, breathless, almost before he'd finished talking.

"What's going on, Sam?" she asked.

"Someone's trying to kill us."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

He fit another bolt into the crossbow. "Sorry dear. Won't be but a minute -- "

"Don't you dare go in there -- "

"Get upstairs and get Sam!"

He gauged his moment just right; one bolt had just been fired, and the sod was reloading. He lunged for the window, fired, heard a satisfying thud as arrow met flesh, and dove through after it. There were footsteps, running --

He groped forward in the darkness, eyes still adjusting, and ducked as another arrow whirled out of the darkness.

He swore, while Sybil wasn't close enough to hear it, and backed slowly towards the house. When no more shots were forthcoming, he reached through the window, undid the latch, and lifted it, climbing in cautiously.

"Mister Vimes!" someone called. Carrot came charging into the hallway. "We heard someone tried to shoot you!" he said breathlessly.

Carrot paused, then, and took in the crossbow in the Commander's hands, the mess inside, and the bolt still stuck in the doorframe. Vimes could see him considering what to say. "I guess someone did" is always a good fall-back, but "did you get him" was a close competitor for dumbest-phrase-of-the-year-award.

"I winged him," Vimes said briskly. "Is Angua -- "

"Right here, sir. We were on the bridge when an All Officers went out on the big clacks at Pseudopolis Yard." Angua lifted her head, sniffed once or twice, and peered into the drafty drawing room. "I'll just...go have a look around," she said calmly. Carrot and Vimes looked the other way as she walked into the room. There was a change in the air- pressure, like a soft sigh from everywhere at once, and a clank.

"All Officers?" Vimes asked, when the furry, golden shape vanished through the window. "So just about any minute now -- "

A squadron of helmeted, axe-carrying dwarves appeared in the hallway, followed by Wilikins. There were two trolls looking over the butler's shoulder.

He was handling the situation with admirable resolve. It was not the first time the house on Scoone Avenue had been invaded by Watchmen.

"I'll fetch some nog for the officers, shall I, sir?" he asked.

"You just brew up some tea," Vimes said firmly. "Detritus?"

"Yes, sir," Detritus replied, saluting.

"Take Stronginthearm and Pickfighter and fetch some plywood from the garden shed. I want that window covered up."

The troll saluted again, turned, and walked out the door calmly. It was hard to surprise Detritus; he was, quite literally, a rock. Vimes turned just in time to see Sybil coming down the stairs, carrying Sam, a worried look on her face.

"Here we are," Vimes said, hurriedly handing the crossbow to Carrot and taking his son in his arms. "Not to worry. Angua's out there tracking him, and I've sent Detritus to board up the window."

"I'm not worried," Sybil said, with a gallantly false smile. "Are we staying here tonight, dear?"

"Might be best if you did, sir," Carrot said, examining the one-shot bolt in the doorframe. "There's plenty of traps on the grounds, and if he's hurt, he's not likely to want to have another go tonight. Angua's bound to get hold of him, and we can station -- "

"I'm not making my officers stand guard around the house all night. We'll stay up at the Yard. We can come back tomorrow morning when there's a bit of light out and have a nice Hogswatchday," he added, seeing Sybil's mouth open to protest. "Anybody trying to get into a building full of Watchmen'd have to be more daft than I give this one credit for. There's plenty of empty rooms. We'll put Sybil and Sam in a separate room, so even if he does make a try for it..."

"I'll just have Wilikins pack some things for the baby," Sybil said. Vimes tucked a straying blanket corner closer around his son, and turned as Angua came back in the room, adjusting her uniform.

"I'm sorry, Mister Vimes," she said. "He dropped a scent bomb right in front of a whole group of Watchmen. The world is full of peppermint and not much else."

"I thought he might. That wasn't Assassin's Guild," Vimes said. "It was some nutter who wants me dead. Who've I made that angry recently?"

"Dunno, sir. Relative of Timbry's, maybe. Didn't think he had any family."

"I hate it when they do this sort of thing," Vimes said vehemently. "All right, I'm pretty sure I hit him so he's not likely to be up again soon. But I want the honour guard at the Patrician's wedding to stay sharp. Every man carries a crossbow in addition to his sword. If they're taking shots at me, it's likely they'll try the Patrician, too. I'm not going to be responsible for the man dying on his wedding day."

"Right you are, sir," Carrot said. "Shall I call up some of the off-duty officers?"

"Hate to do it on Hogswatch," Vimes murmured. "All right, offer them overtime. I'll pay it myself. Volunteers only. And real volunteers, not Detritus' type of volunteers."

Carrot saluted. Young Sam woke, finally, and launched into a choking cry.

***

It was the volunteer bit that he regretted, in the end. Word got around quickly that someone was taking pot-shots at the Commander. It wasn't as though Vimes was particularly beloved of his subordinates, but he was their boss, he was a regular Watchman who'd Made It, and he was a copper. Coppers don't like coppers getting shot at.

By morning, the Yard was flooded with Watchmen, in and out of uniform, milling about importantly, getting in each other's way. Vimes woke to the sound of Carrot trying to quietly carry a breakfast tray in, and failing completely.

"Yargh," he said, sitting up. "What time is it?"

"Nine ay-emm, sir," Carrot said smartly.

"Mf. And what time is the wedding?"

"Three in the afternoon, sir."

"Good. Wake me at two-thirty."

Vimes pulled the blanket back over his head, and tried to muffle the sound of Carrot's perfectly reasonable explanation why he had to get up.

"There's half the Watch downstairs," Carrot continued, when Vimes had finally caved to the inevitable. He staggered to the wash-basin and began to shave, slowly. "People are a bit perturbed, sir," the Captain added.

"Yes, I know how they feel. How's Sibyl?"

"Still asleep, sir. Young Sam too. I thought it best to wake you first."

"Thank you, Carrot. Now. Tell me what I should be thinking."

Carrot nodded. "I've already had guards go over every inch of the main hall. The wizards promise they'll see if anything supernatural is going to happen. Dorfl's co-ordinating with them."

"Wizards are lazy. Is Buggy around?"

"Yes, sir -- "

"Get him on that bird of his and put him wherever in the hall he can see the most. I want Downspout and Cornice on balconies."

"They won't like being inside, sir."

"Good, it'll make them edgy. Edgy people notice things."

"Yes, sir. I've got Andre and some of his lads in plainclothes, blending in with the visitors. They seem to think it'll be much more fun than the usual Hogswatch events."

"Andre's that way."

"Yes, sir," said Carrot, with barely suppressed disapproval. He didn't like it when coppers were out of uniform; if they had to be undercover, they shouldn't enjoy it. "And there's a dwarf with an axe at every entrance."

"Try and explain to them at least the concept of being subtle about things? And trolls patrolling -- "

"Patrolling the grounds. The wizards are a bit touchy about that, sir."

"Well, Sybil's been meaning to endow a reading room in the library, now's her chance. Honour guard are armed?"

"Swords of course, sir, and I thought crossbows as well."

"Good lad. Who've we got?"

"Angua and I, sir, and Reg Shoe and Fred Colon, and Detritus and Cheery. Nobby has seniority, but he said he'd rather not, sir."

"Really?"

"Yessir. Says he'd rather mingle."

"Oh, dear." Vimes finished shaving, and patted his face dry. Nobby wanted first crack at the feast, in other words. "What about the coaches?"

"Got constables riding with the drivers. The Patrician is being somewhat sharp about things, sir."

Vimes laughed.

"Vetinari's got nerves after all! I knew he was human underneath all that iron," he said. "Thank you, Carrot, you've made my Hogswatch. Now get out of here so I can change and check on a few things."

***

It was somewhat untrue, given precedent, that a Patrician who was not up-to-date on events was not a Patrician for long. Several former Patricians had proved this by being, not only slow on the uptake, but slow to recognize Reality when they saw it, if they saw it at all.

Vetinari had learned from these men. He'd learned what not to do.

The report of the attempted murder of Sam Vimes reached him just as Vimes himself was reaching Pseudopolis Yard. A second report, concerning the murder of a doctor in Treacle Lane, reached him shortly afterwards. He wasn't too concerned about the doctor, who had a nasty habit of patching up criminal types that didn't want it noised about how they'd gotten that crossbow stuck in their shoulder. He was concerned about Vimes.

Vimes lived in the moment, and specialized in reacting, rather than acting. It made him a good copper. Vetinari lived in the moment, but it was always the moment just ahead of everyone else. He thought in ways that would make a normal person's head hurt. Just now, he was thinking quite hard.

A man tries to kill the official witness to his wedding on the night before it occurs. Not just the official witness, but really the only man for the job, because nobody he knew had that single-minded intensity of conviction that Vimes did. And it was that intensity that Vetinari -- no, not even Vetinari anymore -- that Marisia needed. Just until the ceremony was over. After that, as he understood it, things would be sealed. If Vimes was the witness.

It wasn't that Vetinari particularly wanted a wife. It wasn't even that he felt she would be useful. But he knew a good opportunity to acquire one when he saw it, and was loathe to let it slip by.

Now, obviously, someone was angry. Someone was angry that the belief normally floating about like extra onions in the soup of life had been taken for a purpose that was not, by and large, celestial.

Someone human, however. Or at least, posing as human. A priest, perhaps. Not one of Ridcully's, the man didn't have the imagination to understand what was going on. Come to that, most priests didn't.

Vetinari had set up a temporary office, consisting of a table and rickety chair supplied by the Archchancellor, in an anteroom of the Great Hall. Occasionally, clerks brought in papers or carried others away*. Now, he steepled his fingers and watched the sun rise over his city, from a nearby window. Soon, Marisia Gumboni would awake; in a few hours, she would ride to the Great Hall of Unseen University and they would be married. It was enough to make a normal man want to hire a fast horse and buy a map to the Ramtops.

* City rulers do not get holidays. At least, not when they rule Ankh- Morpork.

But Lord Vetinari was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a normal man.

He looked down on the city, and put the small, vague worry aside.

Certainly, Vimes was capable of this. If anyone was.

***

"I'll smite him. That'll finish it."

"You can't thmite him. It'th the ruleth. Ath long ath he hath the power, he'th got to be dealt with ath a human, by humanth. The Avatar ith really doing rather well."

Io glared at Offler, who was peering interestedly down at the playing board.

"Since when have rules mattered to gods?" Io asked icily.

"Thinth we'll lothe the belief anyway if you thmite him," Offler replied casually.

"Some Avatar. Can't even shoot a man properly."

"Humanth are unpredictable. Who knew thith man Vimeth wath that paranoid?"

"We did. We're omnipotent. We know everything," Io replied.

"Technically thpeaking," Offler reminded him. "But all thith Unthertanty ith bloody annoying."

"So we can do nothing?"

Offler grinned a toothy grin. This is an excellent activity for a crocodile god.

"Well, we can do thomething," he said. "But it'th a lateral move. You won't like it."

Io didn't like it.

He didn't like it one bit.

***

It was certainly not the best Hogswatch anyone ever had. Sybil and Sam were nervous, and children -- especially babies -- pick up on emotion. Young Sam, while enjoying the bright colours and rustling of the Hogswatch presents, nonetheless grew cranky and teary whenever his parents were more than a few inches away.

But, Sybil thought, as she watched her husband engage in a game of tug-o-war with young Sam over a bright red velvet ribbon, it wasn't the worst Hogswatch either. She'd already been out to the dragon house to find Sam's wonderful gift for her -- a small, shy dragon with a bow tied around its neck, which it was spiritedly trying to eat.

Sam seemed to like his new silk pajamas, and the newfangled sighting mechanism for his crossbow. Sybil didn't pretend to understand how it worked, but apparently the little box clamped onto the stock with the twist-mechanism. Inside was a specially-enchanted salamander in an insulated chamber. When you lifted the lens-cover on the front of the box, the light from the salamander shone out, focusing a bright red dot on the area where the quarrel would hit, if you fired it.

By the set of Sam's jaw, she could tell that the first person he wanted to test it on was the mental case who'd fired through their window last night.

Neither of them could stop themselves looking over their shoulders at the boards tacked across the broken window. And the time until the wedding seemed to pass all too quickly.

When Carrot appeared in the doorway, helmet under arm, Sybil sighed and gathered up young Sam. Vimes kissed his son, gave Sybil a confident look that he didn't feel, and went upstairs to change and get the rings.

He looked terribly impressive in the uniform. She knew he hated it, but Sam Vimes saw the uniform as a sign of betrayal -- he was a Watchman, a Cockbill street boy who'd happened to be lucky. Sam Vimes was also, however, a man worthy of everything he'd been given, and she wished he'd see it.

Sam would go on ahead, double-checking the arrangements at the Great Hall. She would leave young Sam with a pair of trusted Watchmen at the Yard and arrive, with the rest of the wedding guests, when Sam had made sure it was safe.

Watchmen never really went off duty.

She and Sam waved goodbye from an upper window, as the coach set off across the city. Then she took young Sam to the nursery, and began to prepare for the wedding.

***

The Great Hall was in an uproar. Drumknott, who was apparently going for the award for least sleep achieved in a single week, had a clipboard and a murderous look for anyone who got in his way.

Carrot also had a clipboard, and he and Vimes moved through the crowds of decorators, under-servants, florists, and secretarial staff with difficulty. Several watchmen, already stationed around the palace, saluted as they passed.

"You'll stand here, Commander," said Archchancellor Ridcully, indicating the front of the great hall. "You and the Patrician -- do you really think he'll go through with it?"

"Couldn't say," Vimes said. It was a safe statement. It didn't mention insane snipers, imaginary women, or the madness of Lord Vetinari at all.

"Well, we'll soon know. The Dean is performing the ceremony -- "

Vimes nodded at the Dean of Unseen University, who had also married him and Sybil. He was a windbag, but he was a respectable windbag, and trustworthy. Vime smelled trouble of the magical persuasion, but not from the wizards.

Vetinari dabbling in magic! It set the world on its ears.

Speaking of which...

He saw the Patrician entering the Great Hall, unescorted and alone. For a brief moment he was reminded of his own uselessness before his wedding, but then good sense took over, not to mention reflexes. There was a large, tattered tapestry above the entrance where the Patrician stood, held in place by a thick iron bar.

Which was wobbling.

Carrot was already there, a redheaded blur of armour, and Vimes didn't even flinch as he saw the bar begin to fall. Instead, he ran.

Across the hall and up the stairs and along the narrow balcony walk, not looking down in case he fell down, and around across the maintenance scaffolding behind the pipe organ, to the stairs nearest the mechanism that held the tapestry in place. It was a stupid plan, he thought, as he slid into a solid mass of shadow. Too far from the stairs. Better to bide your time --

But what he said was, "Nicked! Damn you!"

An elbow came up into his ribcage and a knee attempted to ensure that young Sam would forever be an only child, but Vimes was ready for it and brought his fist down hard on a kneecap, stopping the leg and very nearly cracking the bone. He dove head-first into the man's belly, scrambled forward when they both fell, and had his knees on the uneven, heaving chest, trying to hold down four limbs while only using two, himself.

A second tapestry fell. Wood crashed below. Half of it slipped over the balcony railing and entangled the two men further. Vimes felt himself kicked off the other man, and flailed out, getting a good grip on what turned out to be his head.

"Give it up!" he shouted, tangling in the thick, mothball-laden cloth.

"Blasphemer!" the man yelled back. It was not the curse that Sam Vimes was expecting, and he didn't have a smart reply ready for that particular adjective. He tightened his grip.

"You're under arrest. I'm an officer of the Watch!"

"Blasphemer and worshipper of idols!"

Wish I had one now, thought Vimes. Nice big stone idol I could crack him across the head with.

By now, other officers had begun to gather, and he heard a dwarvish war-cry as an axe tore into the tapestry. A giant stony hand reached in, groped around, and plucked the other man out by the collar.

"You want I should find a wall, Mister Vimes?" Detritus' deep voice boomed.

"No, Detritus! Keep hold of him, he's slippery!" Vimes called, finding the hole and managing to push through it. "How's the Patrician?" he demanded, running to the balcony edge. Carrot, down below, waved both hands.

"No harm, sir!" he called.

This was not, strictly speaking, true.

"Nathty knock to the head," Igor said, half an hour later, as Vimes and Carrot stood nearby. Most of the city's leaders were clustered outside the University doors; the watch patrols wouldn't let them any closer. Those who were already inside were huddled near the door of the Archchancellor's office, where they'd carried the unconscious Patrician. "Not a lucky man, Lord Vetinari."

"Tell that to the iron bar that nearly split him in half," Vimes growled. "He going to be okay?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Fix him up a treat. Ten minutes, he'll be good as new."

"No surgery, Igor!"

"Yes, sir," Igor sighed. "I'll call when he'th up and about."

Vimes tucked his helmet under his arm and tried to smooth his hair. "Best go tell the rest of them. You take care of the guilds, Carrot," he added, knowing that they'd believe him. He'd have to deal with the wizards and Palace staff himself.

Oh, and one other --

Vimes winced as a salamander flared just outside the door. Otto, early as always when photographs were to be taken, had snapped several fine images of the fistfight between Vimes and the attacker. Now he held the iconograph box in front of the Watchmen, and held up a thin, white hand.

"Be standing still, please!" he said, as the salamander flared again. Vimes put a hand over the lens. Otto, not at all discouraged, pulled out a small notepad and a bit of pencil.

"Do you haff a statement for ze Times on zer unlikely collapsing of zer Patrician?" he asked, licking the tip of his pencil.

"Chriek, you're an iconographer," Vimes snapped. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, vell, zer reporters veren't here, vere zey? Zo I am, as they szay, fillink in."

"Fillink in," Vimes sighed.

"Indeed. Vould you szay zer vedding is off?"

"No!"

"Ah, zen zer Patrician vill go through vith it?"

Vimes rolled his eyes, and gathered his thoughts. "The Watch has apprehended a suspect in an attack on the Patrician earlier this afternoon. He is being tended by the best doctor -- " he saw that Otto was writing furiously. "Here, that's Uberwaldean."

"Oh yes, a good language for reporting. I vill translate later. You vere juszt about to say that he vas expected to recover in szhort order."

"Yes, I was," Vimes said with a glare. "We are confident that his Lordship will be recovered in plenty of time for the wedding."

"Vhy vas zer attack perpetrated?"

"That has yet to be determined."

"Szo you don't know?"

"So I'm not telling."

Otto looked crestfallen. "Vhat vould Villiam ask, here, please?" he said, plaintively.

"William de Worde would know I wasn't going to tell him any more, and retreat."

Otto considered this. "Zank you for your time, Commander," he said, and vanished into the gloomy hall.

Vimes breathed out, slowly, and walked down the hallway, to an empty office where Detritus was guarding* the prisoner.

* Detritus' definition of 'guarding' varied wildly from day to day; for cooperative vict -- er, prisoners, he merely looked incredibly threatening. For troublesome folk, he sometimes employed furniture. As a club.

He was a small man, with wispy brown hair and wild bloodshot eyes. When Vimes entered, he shot forward, pointing, froth forming at the corners of his mouth.

"Blasphemer! Worshiper of idols! Pagan practitioner of dark deeds!"

Vimes eyed him, curiously.

"No," he said, finally. This stopped the man in his tracks.

"What do you mean, no?" he demanded.

"No, I'm not," Vimes clarified.

"Course you are."

"Nope, sorry."

"Liar! Bewitcher of men!" the man continued, but with less enthusiasm now.

"You can't say dat," Detritus growled.

"Oh, I'd like our friend here to talk," Vimes said, leaning against the wall. "I'd like to hear the whole story."

"You'll have to torture it out of me!" the man said happily. "I knew you were a godless man!"

"Which one?"

"Sorry?"

Vimes detected that he was dealing with an easily-derailed train of thought. This is an advantage, in an interrogation.

"Which god?" Vimes asked.

"All of them!"

Oh, dear.

"What's your name?" he tried.

"I am called Vengeance of the Gods!"

"Hard name to fit on an arrest form. Got a shorter one?"

"You -- "

"All right, all right." Vimes held up a hand. "Why were you trying to kill the Patrician?"

"Abuser of power!" the man shrieked. "The idolatrous stealer of belief! She doesn't even exist!"

"Ah. Someone else finally tumbled," Vimes nodded. "We know. She's fairly charming, for a nonexistent entity."

The man stared at him.

"You knew?"

"I'll ask the questions," Vimes said sharply.

"Then I didn't have to do any of that?"

"Any of what?"

The man pulled up his shirt, displaying a bandaged ribcage underneath. "You shot me! I could've just come and knocked on your door and instead I had to go to all kinds of trouble and -- "

He was flat on his back and Vimes was straddling his chest, sword to his throat, before either man knew what was happening.

"You shot through my window?" Vimes demanded, through gritted teeth. "That was you?"

"Yes! Because you can't believe in her! You can't!"

"You bastard!"

Vimes felt a craggy hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Mister Vimes," Detritus murmured. He sat back, re-sheathing the sword.

"You tell me what this is all about, right now, or I'll..." Vimes cast about for an appropriate threat. "I'll let Igor improve you!"

"The gods hate him!" the man yelled. "He stole their belief!"

Vimes felt the first inklings of everything beginning to come together.

"The gods sent you, you, because they don't want Vetinari marrying Gumboni? Because he used belief they think belongs to them? To make her?"

"Yes!" the little man was almost weeping with relief, now. "But you're the witness, see? So if you don't believe, it's all okay! That's why I was sent here by the gods! That's why I let you catch me!"

"Let me catch you -- "

"So I could tell you not to believe!"

Vimes stood. He had rarely actually believed anything in his life. Coppers generally didn't. They had enough to deal with in the real world without wrestling over the metaphysical realm. Oh, there were things he knew were true, and things he wished were true (so very, very many of those), but there weren't many things he believed on faith.

Who needed to believe in Marisia Gumboni? She was like the weather. She was so obviously there.

On the heels of that thought came a shriek, and the sound of people shouting.

"Detritus, handle things," he said, and darted out the doorway.

There was pandemonium in the Great Hall. Marisia Gumboni had arrived, and the guards had let her inside; now she stood, near the pipe organ, shrieking in anger.

"You can't do this to me!" she shouted, looking up at the roof of the hall.

"Madam Gumboni -- "

"Curse you!" she cried, turning to point at him. "You're supposed to help him! What good are you, disbeliever!"

Vimes'd had just about enough of people calling him names. He went to grab her shoulders and calm her down. His hands passed right through them.

"Marisia!" someone bellowed. Vimes, turning, was absolutely floored. Vetinari stood in the doorway, out of breath, leaning on the jamb for support. There was a livid bruise over his left eye.

"It's all fading," she said, tiredly. "It's not going to work, Havelock."

"I am not accustomed to failure," the Patrician said, gathering himself to his full height. "Summon the Dean, please," he said, turning to a Watchman. "Do it now," he added icily, when the Watchman looked to Vimes for confirmation. Vimes nodded.

"Do what he says," he said. "You'd better tell me what the hell is going on, here."

"There is not time for that," the Patrician said, and Vimes saw his usual cool efficiency returning. "Come, Sir Samuel."

He limped past them, taking Vimes' arm with one hand and gesturing Marisia forward with the other. "Here and now, in this place," he said, almost to himself. The Dean arrived, puffing breathlessly.

"Mr. Chriek," the Patrician called. "Over here, please."

Otto, who had been lurking sulkily near the fallen tapestry, came forward.

"Yes, szir?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Sit there," the Patrician ordered. Otto sank into the front row of the audience.

"Sam?"

Vimes turned again, feeling dizzy. Lady Sybil emerged from a side-entrance, hesitantly. "A constable let me in. What's going on?"

"I don't know," Vimes answered.

"Duchess, if you would be so kind," the Patrician gestured to the seat next to Otto. Sybil, shocked, sank into it.

"Proceed," Vetinari snapped, at the Dean, who cleared his throat and began. The words washed over Vimes as he watched Marisia, standing next to the Patrician, fading rapidly in and out.

Suddenly, his mind went blank. The rings, the rings.

He reached into his pocket. Oh, gods. There they were. Just in time, too...

The Patrician calmly accepted one of the rings, and Marisia held out a hand that was not quite opaque.

"It's not going to go on -- " she said, but Vetinari stopped her. He maneuvered the ring onto the ephemeral finger. Something like a shockwaved passed through the hall. The Dean winced. But the ring stayed.

"Sir Samuel, I need a great favor of you," the Patrician said calmly. "You must -- "

"Believe, yes, I am catching on," Vimes said sarcastically. "Who needs to believe in -- "

"If you didn't know, you'd do it automatically," Marisia said. "But you do know. So you have to. Please, your Grace."

Vimes stared. "You're not going to get anywhere calling me that," he said weakly.

"Please, Sir Samuel," she said. He frowned.

How did you go about believing in something?

Take it on faith.

Take it on faith that she's a solid woman, solid as rock, and it's just your imagination playing tricks on you, says she's fading like a memory.

Faith?

He stared at her, concentrating.

He realized that, until that moment, he hadn't himself believed that the Patrician was going to marry this woman.

Believe it, Vimes. Look at him. He's standing there, barely keeping upright, and his wife is depending on you for survival.

How in the world do I get involved in these things?

Marisia breathed a sigh of relief, and he looked at her, suddenly. She was solid again.

How did I do that?

"Thank you, Sir Samuel," she said quietly. She accepted the other ring from his numb hand, and placed it on Vetinari's finger.

He didn't so much as smile. Just nodded at Vimes, and turned back to Marisia, with a questioning look.

"It's all right," she said, relieved. "They can't get me now."

***

Like the celestial equivalent of the upstairs landlady, Blind Io stomped his foot viciously. His eyes zinged around like flies in need of Valium.

"Some plan!" he raged. "Tell him everything, you said. He won't be able to believe anything after that, you said."

Offler set his considerable jaw. "If Batht hadn't -- "

"It's all gone! It's been used up and that, that monstrosity of a woman is real!"

"Nithe girl, though," Offler said. Io stared at him.

"Oh, no," he moaned.

***

The disintegrating tapestries had been swept away. The iron hanger and wrecked chairs had been hauled out of the hall by two trolls and the Librarian, who was a hands-on sort of person. Vetinari had been given his cane, and a bandage for his forehead. Vimes thought he'd like a picture of that, for days when the world could do nothing but depress him.

He was impressed by the stamina involved in this particular wedding. Technically, they were already married. But Marisia insisted and the Patrician agreed. They were already here, after all. Why not put on the show for the rest of the city?

Now, Vimes was standing, in his slightly-dented dress armour -- courtesy of 'Vengeance of the Gods' -- as the upper crust of Ankh-Morpork society seated itself in the Great Hall. Vetinari, standing nearby, was still and silent, watching everything with that little look he had, the one that told you he could read every thought in your head, and you couldn't even see the large print version in his.

"Do you want to explain what the hells just happened?" Vimes asked, as he acknowledged a greeting by one of the plainclothes officers.

"Do you really want to discuss it here?" Vetinari asked.

"Yes, actually. I do. My wife was nearly shot last night, thanks to you and your little magic trick."

Vetinari sighed, but kept the clear, still expression on his face. "Belief is fueled by nothing so much as hard evidence of the idea in question. One man began believing in Marisia Gumboni because his officers in the far reaches of the Disc notified him that it was so. Rumour is a fickle goddess, but I knew I could count on the Watch."

"I only told de Worde, and then only because I had to."

"Ah yes. Mr. de Worde. Do you know, he doesn't even keep those filing cabinets locked?"

Vimes thought back to Carrot's remark. If the newspaper prints it, it must be true.

"So you set it all up."

"You make it sound as though I was a criminal mastermind. I merely arranged a few things that might, as it were, come together to form an opportunity. When it occurred, I took advantage of it." Vetinari nodded at Lord Venturi, who was passing through the aisles, trying to find an empty seat. Vimes tried to ignore the fact that Carrot was desperately trying to get his attention. He had a feeling he knew what the Captain was going to tell him.

"But she required a certain amount of belief, you know. More than I could provide. You are a man who does not hold many convictions, Sir Samuel, but those you do hold are quite...oh, how shall I put this...quite firm. When you do believe, as I think has been admirably demonstrated today..."

"That's why you wanted me as best man. I'm a good witness," Vimes said dully.

"I was not lying when I said I could not think of anyone else I would rather have fill the position."

"That's no kind of an answer."

"No. But it will have to do, for now. I must say, I didn't expect an attacker to descend. I imagine someone on Cor Celesti is not very happy with me right now. Alas, they do not have you on their side, Sir Samuel."

Vimes opened his mouth to reply, but he was effectively drowned out by the Librarian, who had begun a sort of improvisation on Fondel's Wedding March, using the giant organ in the great hall, which had several buttons that might cause explosion if used when the air reservoirs were at their fullest.

Marisia Gumboni -- now a solid, real woman -- appeared at the entrance arch, wearing an unusually fancy wedding dress, and preceded by the honour guard, in terrifically shiny uniforms.

"Best foot forward, Sir Samuel. It'll all be over in a few minutes," the Patrician said, over the wheezing of the organ. "My..." he gave Vimes a funny little look. "My wife and I appreciate your efforts on our behalf."

The ceremony, when not made urgent by the temporary transparency of the bride, was quite long. For Vimes, it consisted mostly of standing, and trying to ignore the whirling thoughts in his head, and giving them the rings again. Then there was a ledger for him to sign, saying that he'd witnessed the damn thing, and the honour guard had to be led out of the Hall.

"Sir," Carrot said, as he walked by to join the others in the honour guard, "The man who attacked you vanished. Detritus says -- "

"Don't worry, I know. I expected as much," Vimes said wearily. "I don't think he'll trouble us again. I don't think he can."

"But sir -- "

"Smile and march, Carrot," Vimes said, as he led the Patrician and Marisia to the front of the line. "I'm not making a toast," he said under his breath, to Vetinari.

"Happily, Sir Samuel, I anticipated as much. There are many dignitaries here today who would gladly take your place," Vetinari replied. Vimes detected a mild double-meaning. "I have asked the Genuan ambassador to make a small speech."

Outside, as news of the wedding passed from the Great Hall to the streets below, a cheer went up. Vetinari sighed.

"I do hate it when they go patriotic," he said dryly. "Still, I suppose I have the citizenry to thank."

"How's that?" Vimes asked.

"Who do you suppose spent more time imagining -- believing in -- this woman? Myself, or the people of the city? I barely went beyond a quite simple physical description. I did not select her personality or her talents. I have you to thank for that."

"Me?"

"Oh yes. And the rest of Ankh-Morpork. They are the ones who imagined the sort of woman I would marry. Marisia was molded to fit Ankh- Morpork's expectations of her, not mine. No indeed." The Patrician took her arm, falling back slightly. "In a way, you could say I have married the city. A good match all round, I think."

Vimes, who'd had one too many shocks for anyone to deal with, simply shut his mind down after that.

***

"That was quite a Hogswatchday," Sybil said, sinking into a chair in the Ghastly Yellow drawing room and removing the dancing slippers, which she hated almost as much as Vimes hated his dress uniform. "What happened to Havelock? You could hardly tell it was him, under that bandage."

"Carrot happened," Vimes grunted, removing his armour and handing it to Wilikins, who carried it out to the rack. He sat back on a couch, exhausted, and looked at the ceiling. "Someone tried to drop a tapestry on Vetinari's head."

"That wasn't very nice, Sam."

"I didn't do it!" He said, indignantly. There was a slight pause. When he looked over at her, she was smiling.

"I know, Sam," she said gently.

"Oh, gods..." he put his hands over his face. "I'm going to bed and sleeping for a week. Maybe two."

"I'm sorry. Tell me what happened," she said.

"Carrot knocked him out of the way. Into a wall." He sighed. "There are easier ways to get married. There must be."

"We seemed to do all right."

"I was half an hour late for ours and covered in slime. Vetinari got shot."

"But it was a lovely ceremony."

He grunted. "Yes. I guess it was."

"Do you suppose they'll be happy? Havelock and Marisia?"

"Dunno. Reckon they're in love?" Vimes asked, thinking of the one, crystallizing moment when Vetinari had stood in the doorway, calling Marisia's name. And then he thought of the fact that no-one could be as devoted to this city as he and Vetinari were, without loving it. Loving Ankh-Morpork was not a satisfying hobby, but it went with the job. If you wanted to keep the job.

"They looked happy," Sybil answered, virtuously. She didn't add that, for Vetinari, 'happy' was anything beyond a blank poker-face. "It's not always easy to tell."

"No, I suppose not," he said. "It's not the way I'd go about getting a wife, I can tell you that."

She laughed, gently. "I hope you're not planning on anything of the kind."

"No, dear."

***

"So this is myself," Marisia said, looking at herself in her bedroom mirror for the first time. The Patrician sat nearby, hands on his cane, watching her admire herself. "I quite like it."

"Of course," he replied. "Nothing you would change?"

"No, Havelock."

"Good. Then the job was well done. I appreciate craftsmanship."

"Yours, or the Duke's?"

"Both, I suspect."

"And what," she asked, turning to face him, "Do we do now?"

A small smile appeared on his lips.

"We care for the city, Marisia. First and foremost, always."

"After we've done caretaking?"

"We are never done caretaking."

"Oh, yes," she said dismissvely. "But after the duties are seen to. At the end of the day?"

"Then, I think, we may be allowed a few minutes of privacy," he answered. "I don't think even the gods would deny us that."

***

And, gentle readers, neither will I.

***

END