#Vetinari: Drumknott why are you up??

[mortispoxi]

After recently rereading The Truth, I was reminded how much of an unstoppable machine Drumknott is because little man got bonked on the head, had his arm nearly torn off and suffered a good amount of blood loss, but the moment Vetinari’s name was cleared he returned to the palace probably looking like a goddamn mummy with all his bandages ready to get back to work and Vetinari LET HIM!

I know Igor is good at what he does but damn at least let yourself rest for more than a few days.

[coffeb-u-n-n-y]

I'm reading Terry Pratchett's "Raising Steam" right now and I honestly don't understand why we haven't praised this scene so much.

Exhausted, and in defiance of custom and practice, health and safety – but, on the other hand, with all the glory of the gods of style – to the dismay of the palace guards he rode the golem horse all the way up the steps to the door of the Oblong Office. There he was pleased to see Drumknott, who deftly opened the door and stepped backwards so quickly that Moist, by ducking, managed to trot neatly to within a foot of Lord Vetinari’s desk.

Unruffled, the Patrician lowered his coffee mug and said, 'Mister Lipwig. It is customary to knock before entering my office'

Moist flew into Vetinari's office on a golem horse and Vetinari was just like "I'm not impressed with this cockiness, but you definitely should have done it a little more politely"

I CAN'T

[morporkian-cryptid]

✨Lupin III Discworld AU✨

Miscellaneous headcanons

Aka stuff that didn't fit in the other posts

If you have ideas, headcanons, or even just vague vibes, please do reblog or send me an ask!

///

Rincewind is terrified of Zenigata. He once got arrested because he was startled by Zeni yelling LUPAAAAAAAAAN! and started running for the hills, making Zenigata believe he was Lupin in disguise.

///

Detective Yata befriended Head Secretary Drumknott after his and Zenigata's first visit to the Palace. They competitively compare their respective bosses, share filing tips, and commiserate about pencil theft (a quirk that Lupin has unfortunately copied from Lipwig). Drumknott accidentally called Vetinari "Sempai" once.

///

Zenigata tried to arrest the Luggage once, before the Watch explained to him why he shouldn't (apparently the Luggage eating his hat wasn't enough to deter him).

///

Lupin made Jigen one of those wristwatches that tell the phases of the moon (like the one Carrot made for Angua).

///

Lupin had a phase where he obsessively stole famous dwarf breads, prompting Carrot to ask to be assigned to the Lupin case with Zenigata.

///

The Gang adapting to the moon cycles and Jigen's transformations. Yeah. (I have a lot of feelings about werewolf!Jigen if you couldn't tell already)

///

The Thieves’ Guild and the Watch are competing to catch the Gang, but secretly Vimes is rooting for the Gang, because he dislikes Lupin only slightly less than he dislikes the Guild. Lupin knows at least a dozen different ways to escape from the Tanty (and has a hefty stock of Hope Spoons as a result). Vetinari probably planned to reassign him into public service, but has long since given up on the idea, and now only tolerates him as Enrichment for Lipwig.

///

For Jigen's birthday, every year Lupin steals a public figure's hat. Jigen returned Mustrum's hat (a custom wizard hat with drawers, a crossbow and an alcohol flask in it) the next day. The theft of Lipwig's golden winged postman cap lead to Adora-Belle claiming she didn't recognize him. Lupin's next target is Srgt. Detritus' ventilated helmet. (He hasn't tried to steal Vetinari's skullcap yet, probably because he retains a smidge of survival instinct.)

///

For Goemon's birthday Lupin raids the Assassin's Guild's museum of historical weapons, and pilfers anything that has a blade.

///

Jigen's greatest dream is to shoot Detritus' Piecemaker.

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The Gang visits Lancre in an expedition to steal... I don't know what. There isn't much to steal in Lancre. They meet the local coven and Nanny Ogg starts hitting on Lupin. (I'm still unsure whether Lupin reciprocates, that would honestly be hilarious).

///

Zenigata regularly enlists Angua's help to track down the Gang. He's one of the rare outsiders to the Watch who's allowed to know that she's a werewolf. Angua has a personal rivalry with Jigen, who's constantly teasing her when they meet in human form.

///

Jigen and Bengo Macarona are exes. (Actually, would it be funnier is Bengo is Jigen's or Lupin's ex? He's Quirmian so it would make sense that he's met Lupin, but also he's a soccer player and he is JACKED.)

///

Goemon's Zantetsuken is a talking sword (like Kr!ng in The Color of Magic). Its personality is the living embodiment of Bushido, and it is extremely annoying. Fujiko stole it and ran from Agatea thinking she could make a fortune from it, but it kept insulting all her potential buyers. She was about to throw it in the Ankh when Goemon finally caught up with her. The Gang have threatened to throw it out the window countless times during long carriage rides. It's part of the reason why Goemon typically sits on the roof, and why Fujiko only rides on her horse golem and not in the carriage.

///

Again, if you have ideas, headcanons, or even just vague vibes for this AU, please do reblog or send me an ask!

[skyriderwednesday]

Vetinari does know how to knit and is actually fairly good at it*, but he doesn't have time to commit to his own projects and he is entirely banned from touching Drumknott's knitting for several reasons.

Firstly, it is incredibly disconcerting to pick up your knitting project and find it several rows ahead of where you left off. It doesn't matter that you knit the repeat exactly to where it was when Rufus put it down, it's weird, stop.

Secondly, he knits in (the Disc's equivalent to) English style, which is entirely compatible with Rufus's [for lack of coming up with an appropriate term] Continental, but mixing the two at random starts twisting the yarn and messing up the tension, so stop.

Most pressingly, he's left-handed and Rufus is not, so sections end up knitted backwards in comparison to others, which hasn't resulted in disaster yet, but will surely go wrong eventually-- the thought of which gives Rufus terrible anxiety, sir, please stop.

*Being the kind of child that bothered adults by insisting on being part of their conversations, handing a young Havelock a ball of yarn and a pair of needles was a good way to shut him up**.

**At least until he figured out how to knit and talk at the same time. His Aunt Bobbi still slightly regrets inadvertently teaching him to multitask at the age of three.

[burnsopale]

I don’t really understand why we’re so adamant that you can start reading Discworld from any book? I mean, of course you can, it’s not a big deal, and there’s a very Pratchettian chaotic energy to starting at, I don’t know, Thud! or whatever, but I feel like, when people specifically ask for guidance, we tend to make it more complicated than it needs to be?

I mean, I’d tell them that Discworld has a handful of protagonists with their own series, so you should seek out Wyrd Sisters, Mort or Guards! Guards!, depending on if you want to read about witches, about the Grim Reaper, or about a small angry policeman.

Cause it’s not as if these books don’t have chronology, or character development, or in-jokes.

Like, take The Truth, as an example of a “stand-alone” book that you can supposedly easily start with, and think about how much of the humor is built on the reader already knowing Ankh-Morpork and its key figures:

The way the New Firm seem to come from a different genre, and keep being hilariously thwarted because AM doesn’t work the way they think it does.

How ludicrous it is that Vetinari supposedly stabbed Drumknott, appologised, and then tried to run away with a bunch of cash.

William thinking Nobby is the werewolf in the Watch. Angua knowing that William thinks Nobby is the werewolf in the Watch.

William manouvering to get Vimes a medal while the man is standing right there.

If this is your first book, you miss out on a lot of the funny bits.

Or take Fifth Elephant, which is so powerful because it gives us:

Vimes dealing with his first diplomatic mission as Duke in hilarious and badass ways.

Sam and Sybil’s relationship growing stronger because they are finally properly immersing themselves in each other’s worlds.

The contrast between the way Ankh-Morpork and Überwald treat Cheery and Detritus, and the way their found-family protects them and supports them standing up for themselves in this hostile environment.

The argueable climax of Angua and Carrot’s strange and facinating relationship.

I’m not saying the book isn’t good if you don’t know the full context of all these things, but having read the series in order will make a difference to your experience.

I was going to start with Unseen Academicals and Raising Steam, cause I found them in the store and thought they looked fun and fairly stand-alone, but when @flaggermousse gifted me Men at Arms and told me this was the second book in the City Watch series, I got myself Guards! Guards! to start there. Once I had guidance, why wouldn’t I start at the beginning?

I guess I’m just curious as to why this series of books in particular is treated as if it isn’t a series.

[specialsituationsgroup]

In Your Care

Vetinari singed off on the palace supplies bill, then handed it back to Drumknott.

"Satisfied, sir?"

"Quite."

Drumknott smiled shyly.

Vetinari got up to stretch his legs and clear his mind. He froze, staring unseen through the desk.

"Sir."

Vetinari grabbed the desk, turning the fall into a kneel. Drumknott dropped the file and kneeled next to him.

"Are you all rigth, sir?"

Vetinari's eyes were closed. He was shaking. Drumknott grabbed his shoulder. He swallowed his nerves and brought the back of his hand to Vetinari's forehead.

"Sir, you're burning."

"I think I’ve come down with a cold. I've been feeling faint since this morning."

"This is not a cold, sir. You need to rest."

"I do not have time. Lord Rust will be here in an hour."

"I will move all your appointments for three days. He will think you are making him stew."

"In three days there will be a backlog too great to ever catch up with."

"Then let me help."

"... How?"

"To start with, you don't have to read through every report to find the important parts - I can filter them for you."

Verinari looked at him, eyes hard. "Dangerous phrasing, Drumknott. You could keep things from me and I would never know."

"I could, sir. And you could be defrauding the city."

But we wouldn't.

Vetinari sighed. "Start with the reports then."

Drumknott smiled faintly. "I'll tell the kitchen to make you chicken soup."

"That will start rumors of the unwanted kind."

"Then I'll say it's for me."

"But you will be seen eating your usual lunch."

"Then we can eat togeather."

"Very forward of you, mr Drumknott." Vetinari was sly.

Drumknott shrugged.

"Help me to my room."

"Of course."

Drumknott let Vetinari lean on him. He made to move to the door, but Vetinari did not budge.

"This way, mr Drumknott." He nodded at a random bit of wall. "Remember what I do excatly."

Drumknott understood, torn between pride and fear. "Yes, sir."

Vetinari showed him how to open a sectret door and navigate the hidden pasages safely, Drumknott soaking up every minute detail.

Suddenly, they were in a spartan bathroom. Drumknott realized he was in the patrician's private chambers. He took over, helping Vetinari through the only door, to a room barely larger than his own.

Vetinari sat on the bed and instructed him to his nightshirt. Drumknott went to make tea while he changed. When he returned, Vetinari was curled up under the covers, sweaty and shivering. His eyes were shut tight and brow creased. Drumknott left the tea on the side table, then covered him with all the blankets in the room. The shivering stopped.

Vetinari relaxed. He had a strange look on his face.

Drumknott waitied.

"The last time someone took care of me like this, I was fourteen." Vetinari, no, Havelock, began. "Madam was fussing around me and I told her not to babybe me. But secretly I was glad that she did." His voice had gone hoarse. He shut his eyes, swallowing thickly.

Drumknott sat beside him and took his shoulder through the covers. Havelock calmed down.

"I need to cancel the meetings and order soup. Do you need anything?"

Havelock shook his head.

"Get some sleep."

He nodded.

Drumknott gave a little reassuring squeeze and left. He sent Brian to inform the lords, then feigned a cough in the kitchen, asking for chicken soup and mouldy bread. The maid Jenny looked at him like he was Duck Man, but directed him to the leftorvers destined for the bin, no waste to her. Soup wouldn't be ready by dinner, on account of asking for it so late. Drumnkto thanked her profusely. With a tablecloth bag and a ream of reports, he faced the unassuming wall. A deep breath later, he walked the gauntlett alone, his heart thudding.

At the last step, he stopped to compse hismelf. It felt odd coming in through the bathroom. He half expected to catch the patricain in the tub, butt naked and glaring. Of course, he found Vetinari asleep, doused in sweat but not in pain. Leaving bread by the tea, he pulled a chair over and started to read.

Half way through, Vetinari stirred, blinking at him.

"You're here." Vetinari was surprised.

Drumknott looked up. "I didn't want you to be alone."

Vetinrai gave him a tired smile.

Drumknott bit his lip in hesitation.

"Sir, the rumors that you live on bread and water and don't sleep, is there any truth to them?"

Vetinari took a deep breath. "I eat plainly, compared to other lords, and I sleep with a candle burning to confuse would-be assasins."

"But?"

"I regularly get engrosed in my work and forget to eat or sleep. Or rather, I ignore hunger and drowsyness."

Dumknott's heart sank. "You can't do that, sir."

"Can’t I?"

"Unless you want this to happen again. Or worse. " He klutched the papers.

"Indeed I do not."

"I can help." He offered, again.

"How very kind of you." Vetinari replied, but something was off.

Drumknott couldn't tell what, but the idea of Vetinari not being patrician made him feel like the ground had dropped form under him and he was in free fall.

"If something were to happen to you-"

"Ah. You are offering out of self interest." Havelock rolled over, turning his back to him.

It felt like a gut punch. On reflex, Drumknott opened his mouth to deny, but stopped himself. He fiddled with the corner of a paper.

"I am." He admitted.

Vetinari watched him over his shoulder.

Drumknott met his gaze. "I also hate to see you like this. A man can have more than one motive."

"... Indeed." Vetinari turned on his back, but stared at the ceiling.

Drumknott glanced at the reports, thinking. "Can you sit up?"

Vetinari did.

Drumknott left the papers on the chair and checked the tea. It had gone teppid so he mixed a litle honey in it. When he offered the mug, Vetinari met his gaze. The patirican took it in both hands and sipped. Curious, he opened the cloth.

"Mouldy bread?" He eyed Drumknott.

"A family remedy, sir."

"And you believe it works?"

A shrug. "No Drumknott in living memory died of illness."

"Curious." Vetinari picked up a slice. "The scholars should look into that." He was turning it over. "Perhaps there is something to it."

"Wouldn't know, sir."

Vetinari snifed at it. "Smells vaguely of blue cheese." He gave an experimental nibble. "Not very appealing but then medicine harldy ever is."

"As you say, sir."

Vetinari washed it dwon with a sip, alternating between bread and tea.

Drumknott sat back down.

"Anything of importance in there?" Vetinari nodded at the reports.

"Lord Rust is visiting the guild masters."

"Is he having any luck?"

"Not with the seamstresses."

"Ha. And has he tired the thieves yet?"

"No sir."

"Then he has more ambition than brains."

Drumknott chortled.

Vetinari smiled. "We need not worry then."

Drumknott turned to him, daring not hope. "We?"

"You lied for me, Drumknott. I am eting spoiled food on your assurance. We."

Drumknott blushed and looked away, his eyes falling on the papers. Rust's plotting watched back, sudden like the silence of Old Tom. He sobered.

"People like me are not figthters, sir." He didn't know why he was admiting weakness. Cowardice even. "We endure."

"I know." Vetinari was sympathetic.

Without looking, Drumknott knew his eyes were gentle. "I didn't hide the clerks just to protect them, sir."

"Oh?"

"I didn't want Wonse to be able to call on them."

"You wanted to punish him."

Drumknott shook his head. "No. I just didn't want him to get away with what he's done."

A nod in the corner of his vision. "Perfectly understandable."

He took a deep breath. "People like me, the worst we can do is not give our help."

Vetinari considered him. He picked up another slice. "That can be just as debilitating."

Face averted, Drumknott mumbled "I know."

[softlyblues]

Hi! i read your story if we who are left and i thought it was rly good. one thing i wondered was why Moist is always picked as patrician after Veterinari if you knew anything about that?

hi, thank you! it’s a good question, because i think most discworld people had the idea individually and then went online to find that everyone else was on the patrician moist train. i spent all day thinking about this, actually, and i have an answer that’s definitely more complicated than you were looking for. 

i think there are three and a half people that vetinari might realistically consider as his successor, because in order to succeed vetinari you need to see the man behind the myth, and very few people do. sam vimes, rufus drumknott, and moist von lipwig are the three, and william de worde is the half. (every night i cry with the lack of anymore newspaper books.) 

so lets look at those options! sam first. vimes & vetinari have perhaps the most public relationship, and vimes is definitely the person vetinari feels most comfortable showing weakness/vulnerability around. for example, in feet of clay with the Poisoning That Sparked A Thousand Fanfics, and in men at arms with the gonne shooting, vetinari is both physically and mentally vulnerable - to a really incredible extent - for vimes. in both instances, vetinari’s life is in his hands. in the fifth elephant, snuff, jingo, and thud!, although vetinari’s life is not physically in vimes’ hands, he is very explicit in trusting his reputation and the future of ankh-morpork to vimes, much to vimes’ consternation. 

however, vimes would not be an ideal successor. there’s age, of course - night watch shows us vetinari is at most five years older than vimes, as he is a senior assassin student where sam is entering his first job, and so vimes would be retiring at the same time as vetinari. but more important than that there is vimes’ attitude to leadership and power. sybil, when telling sam that he has risen to the top, gets the reply “so does the scum”, and vimes is always deeply and intensely uncomfortable with the privilege he wields over others. he delegates to carrot as often as he can, and always always takes the most dangerous position; look at thud!, or jingo, or. fuck it. look at every single book. vimes is a commander, but he really, really doesn’t want to be one, and he’s very uncomfortable with the inequality in treatment that comes with holding power. 

okay, now drumknott! imo, the title of vetinari’s terrier is wasted on sam; drumknott is the true “loyal dog” figure. in the truth, despite being the subject of the assault and witnessing it with his own eyes, he is the only character to openly deny that vetinari stole/tried to kill him. he is “very shaken” by the idea that this could happen. unseen academicals shows us vetinari is comfortable showing weakness in front of him, with his admission that he is drunk, and we know that drumknott is his sounding-board in many little scenes throughout the series. so far, so good. drumknott is probably a dark clerk, and almost definitely attended the assassins guild, so there’s no lack of intelligence or knowledge of the city. 

but drumknott lacks one thing, which is creativity. unseen academicals shows us this crack, the whole scene with vetinari asking him what he would do if presented with a ball on the street, and his single-minded interest in stationery. he also hero-worships vetinari too much; he can’t succeed as patrician because of his own perceived lack of what makes vetinari special. 

(i want to quickly look at william before i go to moist. if we had a second newspaper book i firmly believe william would be as beloved as moist is, but as it is we don’t. ;-; the key thing between william & vetinari is that william lacks a loving father figure, and in the truth vetinari shows a paternal indulgence towards the newspaper and movable type that he doesn’t show to other innovations like moving pictures/music with rocks in/previous attempts at a printing press. when william uncovers the truth, vetinari is pleased, but not surprised. william has potential, but that’s sadly all he has - vetinari is definitely a father figure for him, though.) 

so moist! moist is a criminal, a rogue, and completely untrustworthy. he is more talented at manipulation than any other character on the disc apart from vetinari and possibly granny, and he can balance plans on a knife-edge better than anyone except vetinari. if he isn’t presented with a constant life-threatening challenge, he grows so bored he starts breaking into his own house. he has contingencies upon just-in-cases upon getaways hidden all over the city, and like vetinari, is very skilled at pretending to be someone else; or at blending into the background. at the time of raising steam moist has at least three full-time jobs, and is looking for more. vetinari several times makes comments about the state of taxes in ankh-morpork and other public services that he thinks moist would manage well over. 

crucially, vetinari does show weakness in front of moist, albeit of a different kind. with vimes and drumknott its physical weakness, but with moist, it’s civic weakness; vetinari hands him the banks, the post office, the trains, the clacks, because he (vetinari) can’t handle them. so while vetinari trusts vimes and drumknott with his person, he trusts moist with something he values a lot more than his body; he trusts him with the inner workings of his city. looking at age, too, moist is described as early-middle-aged in raising steam, definitely a great deal younger than a vetinari who is entering old age. (it’s been brought up to me that he is 26 [provided he doesn’t lie] in going postal, so assuming 10-15 years have passed between postal and raising steam that puts him at a perfect age for the job) in other words, moist is a perfect age to take over as leader of a city-state. 

vetinari trusts moist with his city in a way he doesn’t trust vimes; he trusts moist explicitly, instead of the implicit trust he gives sam. he knows sam will always be there, because sam has built the system of checks and balances that makes up an almost-perfect watch; he knows moist will always be trying to improve, and that moist has that creativity and imagination that a leader needs to be successful. 

sorry this was so long lmao. but in conclusion: lord moist von lipwig for patrician, and i have a big bang fic i should be working on instead of this

[pratchettpatricianpages]

There had to be more staff. It was worth a try.

“Very well, then,” [William] said. “We’ll give you all a trial, starting right—oh.” He stood up. Everyone turned around to see why.

“Please don’t bother,” said Lord Vetinari, from the doorway. “This is meant to be an informal visit. Taking on new staff, I see?”

The Patrician walked across the floor, followed by Drumknott.

“Er, yes,” said William. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Busy, of course. Such a lot of reading to catch up on. But I thought I should take a moment to come and see this ‘free press’ Commander Vimes has told me about at considerable length.” He tapped one of the iron pillars of the press with his cane. “However, it appears to be firmly bolted down.”

“Er, no, sir. I mean ‘free’ in the sense of what is printed, sir,” said William.

“But surely you charge money?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, I see. You meant you should be free to print what you like?”

There was no escape. “Well…broadly, yes, sir.”

“Because that’s in the—what was the other interesting term? Ah, yes…the public interest?” Lord Vetinari picked up a piece of type and inspected it carefully.

“I think so, sir.”

-The Truth by Terry Pratchett

[therewasatale]

ex-assassin

On Ao3.

Commander Vimes blew out a weary sigh as he entered the room. "Evening." He announced in an exhausted voice and put his helmet down in one of the chairs.

Havelock Vetinari, who sat in his bed waiting for him, smiled and looked up from the paper in his lap.

"Long day, I assume?"

The Commander waved as an answer and began to undress. It was a new habit he took up in the last few weeks. When he got home and didn’t have any remaining strength to take a full bath, at the very least he changed into some lighter and comfortable clothing.

"Well, not like this was your day off or something." Smiled the ruler of the city

"You talk just like Angua." Vimes snorted, adjusting his pants, then with a tired groan sat down on the edge of the bed. "Gods damn it" he slowly shrugged.

"Is everything alright?"

"Just my shoulders," the Commander glanced over his shoulder as he tried to gently massage it, "I assume, you spent the same day as usually. Reading letters and reports, and scaring people."

"Something we might have in common, Samuel." Vetinari put the sheet of paper on the nightstand and moving closer touched the man's face. "Come on, lie down, maybe I can help."

The Commander, too tired to say anything witty, lied down on the bed next to Vetinari.

"You can do with me whatever you want, just don't wake me up." He smiled hearing the small chuckle.

"As you wish." The patrician placed a kiss on his head and caressed his shoulder. "I think it will do good for you."

A drawer creaked open, then closed, and a few minutes later cold fingers smoothed run along the Commander's bare back.

"It's already almost crossing the line of waking me uha-aaaah."

The man made a long groaned as the long fingers began to slowly massage his tired muscles.

" I studied to be an assassin after all, I know the anatomy of the human body surprisingly well," Vetinari explained with a smile, "and there are herbs in the ointment, a gift from Überwald."

Vimes muttered something from which the words 'flea ridden bastards' and 'blue-blooded' could have been heard.

"Just relax, as I heard you had an interesting day off once again."

"You mean, you've read about it." Sam snorted and smiled, hiding his face in the pillow. "I just helped out Carott."

"I'm sure the captain, and Angua have a lot on their plates. If we're already on that topic, how's the paperwork going?"

Vimes snorted into the pillow. "Havelock."

"Yes?" He kissed the commander's greying hair.

After receiving no response, he continued to massage the man’s back, who sometimes made voices full of satisfaction. He drew tiny circles with his fingers and guided them along his spine.

"You're really beautiful." He said leaning closer and kissed the man's neck.

Vimes gave out a small moan and shuddered at the same time "Hey!"

"Yes, Samuel?"

"Why did you-, that's not my back anymore."

With a soft chuckle Vetinari skilfully got rid of the unnecessary clothing on the Commander.

"Oh, well. Maybe my masseuse skills are a little rusty."

Despite his appearance, the Patrician wasn't a physically weak man. Sam was already aware of that, and now he had to find out again as he found himself lying on his back.

"Havelock?"  His lips felt dry, and he had to lick them while looking in Vetinari's eyes which made everything a bit harder.

"I'm just trying to gather my lost knowledge."

"Oh…" the Commander stopped breathing for a second when chilly fingers, ran along the inside of his thigh. He closed his eyes and gripped the sheet beside him. His body didn’t need any more encouragement, it was already ready for action.

Patrician kissed him on the shoulder. "I see you can still be energetic despite the exhausting day."

The answer came as a soft murmur.

There was an evil glint in Vetinari's eyes as a just as evil thought came to his mind. Perhaps it was only the atmosphere of the evening, or the dim glow of the Moon, that made him gave into the tiny thought as he leaned closer to the Commander.

"You're really attractive, both with and without your clothes."

"No, I'm not." There was still enough self-control in Vimes to at least try to protest. However, as Vetinari spoke, that little protest has begun to wither away.

"Drumknott might have noticed that I'm calling you into my office more often these days.  But I just can't get enough of you in your uniform. I love that unlike in the old days, now you look stealthily in my eyes here and now."

"Stop it."

The Patrician kissed the Commander's increasingly red and hot face again.

The man found it difficult to maintain a calm pace of breathing, as fingers were already exploring his hips. Damn the gods for the fact that he was still hearing Havelock's words trough the drumming of his heartbeat in his ear.

"I thought you were really attractive from a long time ago, but if you would know just how much," he kissed Sam on the lips, who grabbed the Patrician's clothes and hugged him closer.

Vimes body arched, by the touch of the Vetinari's hand.

"Sam," gently drew away from the kiss, and smiled at the man shuddering harder in his hands with every second.

"Wha-what?" He watched in a daze as the Patrician gently kissed the faint scar on his palm. The wound that used to be a reminder the time he almost lost everything. Since then, his concept of ‘everything’ has changed significantly.

"You're beautiful."

The Commander's immediate and clear response came from his well-developed stubbornness.

"Oh, you son of a-. Stop with that and kiss me, I will..."

The panting and moaning felling the room became even more intense.

"Havelock ..." his body tensed into an arc and he grabbed the ruler's arm in a futile effort, he couldn't stop its rhythmic movement.

"Yes, I know." Leaning to his neck he gently bit him. At the same moment the man tensed up once again and reached a trembling orgasm between his fingers.

Vimes shuddered, pulling the Patrician closer as he buried his fingers into his hair. After long seconds when his body was still shivering from pleasure, the tired exhaustion flooded him even stronger than before. Even through the small window his consciousness shrunk into from pleasure, he could feel every inch of his body relaxing.

"My dear," Vetinari kissed his face gently and laid down next to him.

"You little..."

"Little?"

Vimes just snorted between two big breaths and despite his burning face gracefully accepted the handkerchief given to him by the patrician.

They rested side by side in silence, listening to the muffled noises of the city. The moon climbed higher in the sky, illuminating the corners of the room with their clear rays.

The Patrician chuckled and the sound of it made Vimes' heart skip a gently beat.

"Yes?"

"I couldn't really refresh my anatomical knowledge, but we'll make up for it in the morning." He pulled the cool refreshing blanket on themselves with a wide motion.

After a short moment of silence, the Commander cleared his throat.

"Okay, but I'll also try on you some things."

"Lovely, then we'll study together in the morning, but in the meantime, sleep well Sam."

There was something in Vetinari's voice that made a pleasant shiver run down Vimes' body.

"Good night, you ex-assassin." The commander placed a last tiny kiss on the Patrician's shoulder and then closed his eyes falling asleep almost immediately.

[mortispoxi]

Sometimes Samuel Vimes has days where he has a lot on his mind and he can’t put his full attention into important tasks. On one of those particular days, Vimes was trying his best to appear like he was listening to the speech the patrician of Ankh-Morpork was giving him while his mind was more preoccupied with thoughts about Sybil, what they were having for dinner, and how before he left home he told her he loved her. So when Lord Vetinari suddenly dismisses him, Sam was so caught up in his day dream that he absentmindedly muttered “love you,” as he was getting up to leave. The moment it left his lips his brain shot back into focus, his cheeks glowing bright red as he quickly stammered out, “SORRY THAT UH...I DIDN’T MEAN...I HAVE TO GO!” Drumknott had never seen the Commander run so fast out of the Oblong Office in his entire career. Later that night after Sam got home, he approaches Sybil who was reading in bed, scoots her legs far enough apart for him to stick his head snuggly between her thick thighs, then tells her to go ahead and crush his skull. She asks him what happened without looking up from her book and through her thighs and the bed sheets comes the muffled explanation as to why he needs her to crush his head like a grape right now so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself further. As that is happening, Lord Vetinari is having a lively conversation over clacks with Lady Margolotta about how Vimes was so lost in thought he accidentally blurted out a love confession. 

[discworldtour]

Moist turned to Drumknott. “May I borrow your pencil, Mr. Drumknott? Thank you.” He walked over to the door and opened it. Then he cupped one hand to his ear, theatrically, and dropped the pencil. “Let’s see how dee--” Clik! The pencil bounced and rolled on some quite solid-looking floorboards. Moist picked it up and stared at it, and then walked slowly back to his chair. “Didn’t there used to be a deep pit full of spikes, down there?” “I can’t imagine why you would think that,” said Lord Vetinari.

-- how extra do you have to be to call in a bunch of contractors to put a floor on your spike pit just to freak out one postman | Terry Pratchett, Making Money

[sandersgrey]

about stories and History

The thing about History is that it is made by people.

You can give your little speech about dictators and History always following its course until you're blue in the face and in your heart; if that were true, there would be no History Monks. If History could be trusted to follow its tracks like a train, why would there need to be more than a conductor? Oh yes, there are patterns, but there are patterns everywhere if you look hard enough. They were also created by people.

History is nothing more than a story we tell hoping for a happy ending.

(Of course, happy endings as we know them don't exist in History.)

(That's the first thing you learn in class.)

(A revolution may succeed, but things become normal. Samuel Vimes would say all revolutions come around again. Things are not quite as dire; revolutions change things, of course. But not all for the better. Not forever.)

(A revolution succeeds, but the people who fought in it still die.)

(There is a better ruler, but he is not necessarily a good one.)

(There are no happy endings in History. There are barely endings and very rarely beginnings. But you can still hope for a happy middle.)

(These are rare too. But if this is a story…)

(If this is another world's History…)

You can talk about History always following its course until your face and heart are blue and your mouth is dry. The fact remains: details change. We might tell a story a million times, and its skeleton doesn't change, but it has a different face after the last telling. That's because History doesn't care about the details. Why would it? History is the big picture. People are small. They weave details like a tapestry.

In the leg of the Trousers of Time we know, Sam Vimes completed a time loop and went home. Good men died. More survived. An assassin fought for a dead man with lilacs in his teeth and a murderer was hanged in the light of day to show everyone that Justice was done. We know this story. We have read it, again and again, despite knowing it, because what mattered was not the end as much as it was the journey.

Have you ever wondered if that's all that happened in another leg of the Trousers?

Take a look at a pocket watch the Vetinari we know owns. Watch how he's always so careful not to let anyone else see it, not even Drumknott, and wonder why. (I'll tell you why.) See Vetinari only deem to open it when he's sure he's completely alone, and read the date engraved inside… do you see? You're not surprised to see the date we know, the lilacs engraved by its side, a story which end Vetinari had thought had happened decades before it did, are you? But it's just a pocket watch only seen by one man alive.

In the leg we know, that's all there is to it.

Sir Samuel Vimes is a married man with a child and a wife he loves with all of his hardened heart. He did the job that was in front of him, and came back to them, to his own future and his own life. It didn't necessarily have a happy ending, no, but it was a happy middle. It was worthwhile. That Samuel Vimes wouldn't have traded that life for anything in the world, and he would be right not to, because it was his choice. It was the story he was telling himself and a story he loved.

But there were other Sams in other worlds, and some of them made different choices. Many of them would not have traded the lives their choices gave them for anything either.

One of them met a young assassin whose older face he knew. In the dark, he mentioned his younger self, not believing it would make a big difference. And in one of the legs, it didn't. Vetinari went on with his life and John Keel with his death. In that leg, Vimes still came back to his Sybil, and the Patrician never dreamed of anything different. He was right not to, because that Sam Vimes never saw him as more than the Patrician, as a ruler and a man who infuriated him above anything else. That Vetinari kept the locket close to his heart when he could afford to and in a safe when he couldn't. It was his, so it was a very safe indeed.

Vetinari never forgot the man who he saw fighting in the revolution, but the man didn't see why he should remember the assassin who fought in the aftermath.

(See? There are no happy endings. This is not a fairytale.)

(And yet…)

In the other leg of those particular Trousers, take a second look at that Pocket Watch. See how one man besides Vetinari saw it and lived to tell himself the story. See the second date engraved just below the first, less roughed up around the edges, newer, brighter.

See how this Vetinari might have a different scar, but he also holds himself differently, for the better.

This Vetinari might not have a happy ending, but he's happy. (Ask him if it's enough. He might not answer, but in the story he's telling himself- it is.)

[patricianandclerk]

On The Line

Moist hesitated only for a second before he knocked on the compartment door, and then he slowly slid it open. The Pat-- Ah. But, no.

Vetinari was sitting on one side of compartment, his reading glasses settled on the end of his nose, his icy gaze fixed on the book in his hands. His hair was showing a little bit more grey in recent years, turning a lighter silver rather than a flint grey, and streaking with more confidence at his temples, but that was the only sign one could really make out that he was anywhere near his own age.

Mr Fusspot showed the years more than he did: grey was across the dog’s muzzle, his stupid eyes drooping at their edges, and his fatigue was more genuine, these days, than it was feigned fatigue so that everyone would let him get away with being lazy.

Moist’s gaze flitted from the Patrician and the dog warming his feet to the Patrician’s clerk, who was asleep. His own glasses were held in a loose grip in his lap, and his cheek rested on the Patrician’s shoulder, his expression utterly peaceful in sleep. He showed his age a little bit, too, with the crinkles around his eyes and his mouth, and the furrow in his brow, his hair lightening with flecks of grey in places, but asleep, it all seemed to fade away a little. The hand not holding his spectacles was loosely entwined with Vetinari’s, and Moist’s gaze stuck on that detail, Vetinari’s thin, blue-veined fingers against Drumknott’s small, scarred hands. 

“Your lordship?” Vetinari asked, arching an eyebrow.

“One of the stokers told me you were on the line,” Moist said. “They mentioned Mr Drumknott was feeling ill - you’re sure you don’t want a sleeper cabin? It’s another five hours back to the city, and he could sleep in a bed.”

“I won’t disturb him now,” Vetinari murmured, with a minute shake of his head. 

“Well, we’re hitting the next stop on the line in about twenty-five minutes, but we’ll be lingering on the platform for a half hour before we keep on to Ankh-Morpork. You want me to pop into the village and get anything for him?”

“You haven’t got better things to be doing,” Vetinari asked, his thin lips quirking into a delicate smile, “than rushing about after two retirees with their petty health concerns?”

Moist von Lipwig, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork - although, thank the Gods, he had a whole council to share responsibilities with, and it didn’t mean quite the same thing as it had done years ago - smiled. “No, sir,” he replied, with an easy shrug of gold-clad shoulders. “Not really.”

“Why don’t you sit with us, until the next stop?” Vetinari asked, and gestured to the bench across from him.

“Oh, don’t let me--” Moist trailed off as Vetinari’s gaze heightened in its intensity, but then he smiled, stepping in and sliding the door shut behind him. When he sat, Mr Fusspot looked up at him with his fat, grizzled face, and Moist leaned down to heft the little dog into his lap, where he promptly fell back asleep.

“Tell me, Patrician,” Vetinari murmured, and his eyes were closed, his book resting on his thigh, his head tipped back against the compartment’s padded seat, Drumknott curled against his side... Moist couldn’t help but think it’d be a good image for a stamp, although Mr Drumknott would never consent. “How goes your work these days?”

“Well,” Moist said, absently stroking the soft fur of the Bank Chairman, and began - quietly - to talk. 

[luckyspike]

i just wrote raising steam fanfic get it out of my head

i listened to ‘We Are Number One [DANK EDITION]’ for the duration of the writing

It seemed appropriate

Vimes makes it a point, on the Iron Girder, to get to know everybody present. It is, after all, a fairly important journey: the Low King is on board, and what kind of guard would he be if he didn’t sniff out any suspicious characters? A piss poor one, honestly.

The engineers don’t worry him - he knows them already, at any rate, and they’re all too focused on steam and mechanisms to pose any legitimate danger. He only has to watch them for a few minutes at work, watching dials, pulling levers, to know this. They’re obsessive, and their first priority would be the smooth operation of the engine. One less group to worry about, then.

The stokers, though. He’d wondered about the stokers. Hand-picked by Harry King, Vimes reasoned they were probably above-board at least in this one specific instance, if not at any other point in their lives. But they were an odd bunch, mysterious pasts, with the sole task of shoveling coal into a furnace - a single-minded job, and not hard to slide into if, say, you wanted to hitch a ride on a rather important journey without drawing too much attention.

Vimes didn’t trust them.

There were eight of them in all, and they had the shifts worked out amongst themselves. Early in the journey, Vimes made the decision not to watch them work, as he had the engineers, because they had a simple job and, if he had to guess, they didn’t likely love it. He admitted, after talking to the first two that he might have been wrong on that count - bonkers about the railroad, the both of them - but nevertheless, Vimes weighed caution above all else. No, individual interrogation would be the way with the stokers. There would be no hiding, no avoidance, just a frank conversation for Vimes to ask his questions and take their measure.

Which was why, a scant 36 hours after leaving Ankh-Morpork, he found himself nearly apoplectic with rage in the stokers’ car, glaring down the tyrant of previously-mentioned city.

He had recognized the man as soon as they came face-to-face, next-day stubble and ridiculous gray shirt and trousers aside, and then blast him he’d had the nerve to say “I don’t suppose you’re going to interrogate me, now, Vimes?” before grabbing the commander by the front of his shirt and, sighing heavily, dragging him into the car. “I’d be obliged if you made it quick.”

“The hells are you doing here?” he spat, while his body snapped to attention, because some habits can’t be broken. “Are you insane?”

Vetinari considered the question. “No, I don’t think so. In fact I’m nearly positive that I am not.”

“So why are you doing - doing …” He waved his arms helplessly.

“This?” Vetinari smirked. “Would you believe me if I said it sounded like fun?”

“Absolutely not,” said Vimes, although he would have. He just didn’t want to.

“Very well. Then consider this: I have entrusted a fairly crucial portion of foreign relations to von Lipwig, and added in the potential for catastrophic mechanical disaster. I can do many things from afar, Vimes, but sometimes it’s best to ensure personally that things don’t go … awry.” He crossed his arms. “Honest enough?”

“You could die,” Vimes hissed, still lingering on ‘catastrophic mechanical disaster’. “If this train goes -”

“Then we all die,” Vetinari said simply. “Frankly, Vimes, I feel it’s unlikely and in either case, should the Low King, you, and von Lipwig die on this blasted mechanism while I remain in the city, my own lifespan there would probably not greatly outlast yours.”

Vimes blinked. He considered it. His rage banked, for a minute, but then another thought jumped into the fire and he snapped, “There will be fighting. You know there will be.”

“Hm, yes, I rather expect I do.” He smirked again. “I don’t need you to protect me, if that is what you’re thinking. Believe it or not, Vimes, I can take care of myself, on occasion.”

“It’s my duty.”

“I’m an Assassin,” Vetinari replied simply, which Vimes considered might be answer enough. “I will be equipped with a very serviceable shovel, and I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know I’ve also taken my own precautions.” There is a whisper and from somewhere - where? Vimes wondered - a knife appeared in Vetinari’s hand. Not a dagger, but a proper knife, with all of the intent and none of the class of the Guild’s usual fare. He blinked. “Feel better?” Vetinari asked, twirling the thing between his fingers before it vanished again, no more obviously than it had appeared.

“Not really.” Another thought occurred to him. “If you’re here, then who’s -” His eyes widened. “Charlie’s a godsdamn idiot, my Lord, excuse my Klatchian.”

“It’s Blake, for the time being,” Vetinari corrected. “Just Blake. And Charlie is an idiot, but an idiot who looks like me, and therefore not entirely useless.” He shrugged and, to Vimes’ complete amazement, grabbed a mug of coffee at random prior to taking a swig. “He has Drumknott with him, he’ll be fine.” He considered the coffee and then set it aside. “I don’t understand the compulsion to put sugar in coffee, I really don’t. Are we done here?”

Vimes blinked. “What? I - Dammit Vetinari -”

“Blake.”

“Whatever. Just …” Vimes scowled, and then, in a move that might have been suicidal back in Ankh-Morpork, but what did that matter here and now, when the Worlde had Gone Madde, he jabbed a finger into Vetinari’s chest. “Don’t die.”

Vetinari nodded solemnly. “I promise I will do my best not to, Commander. Can I leave now?”

Vimes glowered up at the man and then stepped aside. “Fine.”

“Duty calls, and all that.” Vetinari brushed past, and paused at the door, half-opened, to turn and raise an eyebrow at Vimes. “Good luck with your inquiries, Commander. Although, if I may offer a suggestion?”

“No.”

“I’m going to anyway.” Vimes noticed, as an engineer strode past, down the hall, that in a blink Vetinari’s typical genteel enunciation had disappeared, replaced with something coarse and clipped - Pseudopolis, Vimes realized. “Don’t worry about the stokers. There’s way more interesting stuff happening in the back.” He smirked. “I’ve got the front end handled.” He left then, scooping a shovel up from the rack outside the little room, and sauntered - sauntered - up to the engine. Vimes watched him go, hands in his pockets and a rancorous scowl on his face.

“Bloody bastard,” he muttered, before he turned away and headed back to the other compartments, to continue his inquiries … literally anywhere else.

[skyriderwednesday]

Untitled Penguin Fic - Chapter Three & Epilogue

It was halfway through breakfast when the message arrived. The clerk who delivered the note politely disregarded the penguin and fish smell. “Whek?” Vetinari said as Drumknott read it. “The wizards have a solution, sir,” he said. “They would like to see us as soon as it is convenient.”

(G Rated, 6806 words)

Chapter One - Chapter Two

Drumknott woke up painfully early, barely feeling like he had slept at all. He could of course hear Vetinari wheking and Wuffles wuffing, and… he groaned. Why did it sound like they were running up and down the corridor? He dragged himself out of bed, forgetting to put on his glasses until he had already walked into his second door. He stumbled back to his nightstand. Putting them on, he realised they were extremely crooked. Penguins aside, no wonder he’d had a headache the last few days… They’d have to be fixed, but that was hardly his biggest problem for now. He opened the door of his chambers and looked out into the corridor. It was still mostly dark. A flash of brown fur sped past his ankles, barking. Well there was Wuffles. So where was…? “Whek!” Ah. There he was. Vetinari pattered flatly up the corridor and stopped at the sight of him. “My lord…” he said wearily. “Whek?” “Yes, sir, I am awake. Do you know what time it is?” The responding look said Drumknott, I’m a penguin. Rufus channelled his exhaustion into one that said no, you’re really not. He sighed, “It’s not even four in the morning, sir.” “Whek,” Vetinari said, flapping his wings. Wuffles bounded from the other end of the corridor, yapping. Vetinari turned to him, flapped his wings again, and the pursuit resumed. That Rufus had been awoken at quarter to four was evidently considered Not His Problem. And why shouldn’t it be? He was a penguin, Rufus thought sourly, he didn’t need to sleep for more than ten minutes. If that was the way he wanted to play this, fine. That Vetinari was awake wasn’t his problem either. He wouldn’t cause havoc, not on purpose at least. Rufus was going back to bed.

He heard the vase break before he realised what the sound was. Drumknott squinted at the clock on his nightstand in the grey light lethargically filtering through the curtains. At least now it was a quarter to five… Remembering his glasses this time, he got out of bed again. There was no sign of Vetinari in the corridor, and the noise hadn’t come from his chambers. There was a distant whek from around at least two corners, and another crash. Rufus grumbled, pulled his dressing gown tighter around him, and went on the search for destruction. It didn't take him long to find it.  Vetinari was standing in a corridor a little way from their chambers, looking around himself. The slightly proud air about him faded as he saw Rufus. “Sir…” “Whek?” He was standing next to a small table that had been toppled over. A statuette that was ‘not of a goddess, merely of a woman in a similar pose’ was broken into several pieces. On the other side of the corridor, well. Neither of them had particularly liked that vase. It was of a predecessor’s aesthetic taste, and the glaze had cracked. Regardless, it was also in several pieces on the floor. Vetinari was acting innocent -- preening himself to be exact. “Sir,” Drumknott said again, “did you mean to break the vase?” “Whek,” Vetinari said reproachfully. Of course not, his posture said, in the same way he never intentionally set Vimes after operations in the city he didn’t like. He went back to preening his… for lack of a better term, armpit. Rufus rolled his eyes. “Very well, sir. I will call for someone to clean this up.” “Whek?” Vetinari asked. “No, I didn’t sir,” he replied. Tea wouldn’t be enough. This was going to require coffee. It was halfway through breakfast when the message arrived -- well, halfway through his lordship’s breakfast. Rufus still wasn’t over the raw fish, he was even slightly put off his coffee. The clerk who delivered the note politely disregarded the penguin and fish smell. “Whek?” Vetinari said as Drumknott read it. “The wizards have a solution, sir,” he said. “They would like to see us as soon as it is convenient.” “Whek?” “It…” Drumknott read over the note in more detail. “It would appear they are aiming to artificially recreate the conditions that… caused this state, sir.” Vetinari made an uncertain noise. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Rufus shared his apprehension. He was keen enough for him to be returned to normal, and if it could be done before this evening, that was great but… a sick feeling of anxiety set into his stomach. Wouldn’t doing the same thing over again make things worse? Couldn’t Vetinari be made… doubly a penguin? What would that mean? What did a double penguin look like? One of the dreaded frogs in jars with two heads and human fingers? “Whek?” Vetinari said softly, suddenly standing beside him. Rufus broke out of his panic. “Sir?” He made a kind of cooing noise, pressing his head against Rufus’s side. He smelled like fish, but it was oddly comforting. “You… couldn’t be doubly a penguin, could you, sir?” Vetinari butted him gently, making a doubtful sort of noise. Turning a penguin into a penguin, Mr Drumknott? Rufus could hear him say, that would be quite the opposite of a solution to our problem. With a shaking hand, he picked up his coffee and nodded. “That makes sense, sir. I’m sure the reasoning is sound…” Vetinari rubbed his head on Rufus, making another soft sound. “I’m alright, sir,” he said. He cooed again, still cuddling. Rufus tentatively lifted a hand to pet Vetinari’s head. His feathers were one way smooth and the other way prickly, like velvet, and left an oiliness on his fingers. He was oddly solid, muscular. Rufus had thought he would be squishier. He wasn't sure what motivated his lordship to accept petting, it could hardly be instinct for a penguin to cuddle up to a human. Then again, the few mentions he had found of penguin behaviour in reference books (admittedly primarily from his nephew’s much-loved copy of An Encyclo-Paedia of Animales) said nothing of chasing after dog toys or biting footmen either. Another

soft coo. Rufus angled his head to verify that Vetinari still had his eyes open and hadn't in fact dozed off in his lap. “You sound like a pigeon, sir.” “Whek,” he said, as if determined to prove he did not. “Sir, I would suggest that we finish our breakfast and not keep the wizards waiting for us,” Rufus said. Vetinari made a noise that suggested that he agreed, but simultaneously communicated reluctance to return to his side of the table. Given he appeared to be enjoying it, Rufus decided to pet him for a little while more.

Almost simultaneously, there was a scene of rather less peace occurring in the main H.E.M. laboratory. Ponder had spent the last half hour trying to explain his hypothesised method of Returning the Patrician from Penguinhood to the Archchancellor. “…backwards?” Ridcully asked, “You want to un-surge the magic?” “Not exactly, Archchancellor,” Ponder replied, his upper body presently within part of HEX’s inner workings. “You see, I’ve gone over exactly what happened during the surge - which only lasted fractions of a second - and if we can very precisely recreate it in a reversed state it should have the opposite effect.” He pulled himself out with a little grunt, found a smaller spanner than he was currently using, and disappeared from sight again. Ridcully thought about this explanation. “You’re planning to un-surge the magic,” he said. The posture of Ponder’s lower half was distinctly defeated. “If… you really want to call it that, sir, then yes. I’d say that isn’t an entirely inaccurate description.” “Hmf. What are you doing now?” “Just tightening things, sir, making some slight adjustm-- argh…” There was a clatter. “What’ve you done?” Ponder groaned, “I’ve dropped the bleeding spanner, and it’s just gone out of my reach…” “What, do you grease your fingers in your spare time, boy?” “Funny, my aunt used to say something si--” Ridcully picked Ponder up by the ankles, dangling him into the machine. “Sir! ” “Can you reach it now?” “Y-yes? ” Ponder said in terror. At that moment, the Librarian pushed the door open, carrying a mug of coffee and most of a cheese and banana sandwich. At the sight of what the humans in the room were currently doing, he put down the mug and the sandwich just beyond the threshold and backed away, hoping to remain unnoticed.

There had been a few more ‘accidents’ involving somewhat disliked ornaments of low historical or financial value in the time it had taken for Drumknott to change his trousers on account of penguin oils and call up the carriage. The footman had borrowed a thick pair of gardening gloves for the purpose of assisting Vetinari to and from the carriage, he noticed as the door was opened outside of the university and that seemed quite wise. He didn’t know what had come over his lordship in the last half hour, he was very… beaky all of a sudden. He had nearly bitten the porter, and pulling on parts of Rufus’s coat seemed to be his new favourite activity. “Sir, please behave yourself,” he said quietly. “Whek,” Vetinari said, affronted. “It will be embarrassing if you bite the wizards.” “Whek!”, as if to say I would never! Drumknott gave him a look. Vetinari returned a slightly guilty one as the footman lifted him down. Instead of the congregation of wizards Rufus had been expecting, or even simply Ponder, the Librarian was waiting for them on top of the front steps. There was a small pile of banana skins accumulated next to him. As he noticed the carriage, the orangutan scooped them up and deposited the skins under one of the shrubs lining the entry walkway. “Ook,” he said as they approached. “Whek,” Vetinari replied. “Good morning, Librarian,” Drumknott said. “Ook.” “Whek?” “Ook,” the Librarian said, standing up. The door swung itself open, certainly by magic, and he knuckled inside. Vetinari waddled behind, and Drumknott followed. The university was rarely buzzing as much as the city's other centres of activity, not with people at least, but this early in the morning -- five past nine, to be exact, the atmosphere seemed more sedentary than normal. Rufus watched as a paper dart flew past under what may have been its own power and travelled towards the student dormitories. Vetinari and the Librarian were conversing. “Whek,” his lordship said. “Oook,” the Librarian replied, lifting a hand mid-stride to illustrate the topic. “Whek,” Vetinari said in apparent understanding. “Whek?” “Ook!” The Librarian went on, “Ook-oook .” “Whek… whek!” “Ooooook .” “ Wh-ek…” The tone control exhibited bordered on remarkable. If Drumknott had been paying much attention, he might have likened it to the way hundreds of words could be said with only variations of a few sounds in the languages spoken in places such as the Agatean Empire. However, he had found himself more interested in the ratio of distance to the kitchens to number of mouseholes as they navigated the corridors, and he was not as well-versed in knowledge of such languages as may have been expected through proximity to his employer. The Librarian’s route to the High Energy Magic building from the main entrance was far more meandering than Ponder’s. It did eventually however take them through multiple sets of double doors with increasing numbers of warnings pinned to them.

“Ook,” the Librarian said, and somehow Drumknott understood that he was saying that most of the warnings were intended as reminders of protocols to the students. For example, asking them please not to introduce variables of pizza grease into controlled areas. “Whek?” Vetinari asked, questioning their effectiveness. The Librarian shrugged as they finally entered the room HEX resided in. In here there was a sizable congregation of wizards. Drumknott vaguely recognised that most of them had been present at the demonstration. Ridcully was leaning impatiently against a cluttered table, tapping a foot. Ponder was bent over the instructional portion of the machine, still busy as HEX wrote down what he was instructing it. “Morning chaps,” Ridcully said as he noticed them. “Whek!” “Good morning, Archchancellor,” Drumknott said. “Ook.” Ridcully glanced up at the brim of his hat for a moment. “Yes, well done Librarian…” He found an already balled up piece of paper behind him and threw it at Ponder. It bounced off the back of his head. Ponder made a startled noise and turned around. “Oh--” he said with a slightly forced, jittery, overly caffeinated smile, “good morning.” The elevator carriage-like apparatus was back, though the gate appeared to have been much improved. It was still more suited to a vegetable patch, but now it appeared to be at least capable of keeping the neighbourhood kids away from the hypothetical gardener’s prize marrows. There were more tubes, cables, and wires feeding into it. Drumknott eyed it suspiciously. So did Vetinari. “Whek?” he asked. “Ah yes, improvements have been made, my lord,” Ponder said. “Ook…” said the Librarian. “Yes,” Ponder said, “I have tested it actually.” “Ook?” Ponder turned around to look at him, shoved his glasses back up his nose, then resumed inputting data into HEX. “Well I’m not telling you that.” Nothing of this exchange inspired much confidence. Drumknott cleared his throat. “This is safe, isn’t it?” he asked. Ponder made an uncertain noise and scuttled across the room to check his notes, nudging his way past Ridcully. He leafed through sheets of paper, mumbling to himself until he found what he was looking for. “It’s… as safe as it needs to be,” he said as he came back. “HEX, scratch that last input please?” The writing arm tracked backwards and scribbled out what it had last written. “Thank you,” Ponder said, leaning forward to check the placement of decimal points. “Yes, it’s point two four.” HEX wrote this down. “And back to start?” The rollers moved backwards, Ponder paid very close attention until they came to a stop. “Well,” he said, tapping his forefingers together, “that is the sequence I wrote…” “Stibbons?” said Ridcully. “Yes…?” Ponder seemed to suddenly remember that he had an audience. “Oh, right! Yes-- uh…” He looked around a moment before settling on Vetinari. “Yes, so… uh, if we have you in here, my lord,” he said, gesturing to the apparatus. Vetinari looked up at Drumknott with some degree of consternation but, after applying a reassuring tug to Rufus’s sleeve, he waddled to it and hopped up inside. Ponder shut the gate behind him, and peered at a dial as Vetinari’s weight depressed a plate in the base. He made a small noise and went back to HEX’s console. “Just… one small adjustment for the sake of accuracy,” he said, bringing the rollers forward once more and beginning to change things. The wizards grumbled. Ridcully crumpled his beard in his hands and stared at the ceiling. “Whek,” Vetinari said. “No, accuracy is important,” Ponder said, “for… numbers of fingers, and… things like that.” The sick feeling of anxiety set into Drumknott’s stomach for the second time this morning, images of frogs in jars swimming in his mind. Ponder came back to check the latch on the gate. He appeared satisfied. For a moment, Vetinari followed his fingers with his beak, but they never quite strayed close enough to receive a nip. “We’ll all just step out for a moment, not to complicate things… we don’t want any, uh… repeat occurrences…” Ponder chuckled awkwardly, ushering everyone

from the room. He gave the Librarian a thumbs up through the glass in the door. With an ‘ook’ of confirmation, the orangutan pulled the lever and swung himself out of the spell's radius. Light flashed from under the door in various colours and the hum of electricity filled the air. Rufus screwed his eyes shut and tried not to panic. Ridcully vibrated his ribs with a reassuring pat. “Nothing to worry about lad, it should all be going to plan…” he said, though he squinted trying to make out what was happening on the other side of the door. Whirring, humming, clicking… Red light, green light, pink light, blue light… It was several minutes before the atmosphere settled, the noises died away, and light stopped flashing from under the door. Ponder peered through the glass and cautiously slipped back inside.

From the door there was a comforting lack of glitter, but it's absence was only compounded by the dense presence of fluffy white feathers descending slowly to the floor like history's laziest blizzard. Also as in a blizzard, visibility failed entirely. “Ook,” said the Librarian, emerging from his sheltering place. “How did it go?” Ponder whispered tentatively. The Librarian shrugged and started fishing feathers out of the air. He sneezed defensively as one of them threatened to go up his nose. Ponder proceeded further into the room, trying not to inhale feathers. Something rattled. He froze. Someone muttered almost inaudibly. Whatever it was rattled again. There was a cough. Through the muffling effect of down (another similarity to a blizzard), Ponder just about made out a quiet curse directed to the presence of the feathers. The door opened and Ponder spun around. Ridcully's mountainous silhouette was unmistakable even through the haze. “Uh, Archchancellor--” Ponder began and swallowed a feather. “What’re all these bloody feathers for?” Ridcully boomed, waving a hand. There was a flash of octarine and every single fluffy white feather succumbed to gravity at once with a whumph. Ridcully caused tidal waves as he entered the room proper. “So,” he said, “did it work?” “Um,” Ponder unearthed himself from under enough feathers to provide every citizen of Ankh-Morpork with a new pillow every Hogswatch for the next century, ��I haven’t actually determined--” “Might I ask if this latch is intentionally difficult?” Ponder turned around on his knees. Ridcully picked him up by the back of his collar as he strode towards the apparatus. “Havelock, old chap! Back to your old self I see!” “It would appear so,” Vetinari said, trying another possible permutation of gate rattling. “I also cannot open this gate.” Ridcully put Ponder down and pushed him forward. “Sorry, my lord, it’s supposed to be intruder proof,” he said, fumbling to find the pedal at the bottom of the gate without visual reference. “Yes…” Vetinari drawled, watching him icily, “I’m sure it would be quite effective in blocking any intruder who would not think to climb over it.” The apparatus’s size was more apparent now that it contained a tall human man rather than an averagely proportioned penguin. There wasn’t a great amount of head-room provided and Vetinari appeared to decompress somewhat as Ponder managed to open the gate. After only a few steps, his knee buckled and he turned over on his ankle.  “I wouldn’t suppose any of you fine gentlemen has hold of my cane?” he asked. Ponder was frozen, accepting of his fate as support. “Your cane, eh?” Ridcully said. “We’ll have to see where…” “Ook!” The Librarian interrupted, flinging feathers with one hand as he knuckled over with Vetinari's cane in his armpit. “Ah, thank you sir,” Vetinari said, releasing Ponder’s shoulder as he accepted it. “Ook,” the Librarian said, insisting on having his leathery hand shook. “Yes, I do agree,” Vetinari replied. “My apologies, you’re rather too far down for me to keep my balance.” “Ook,” the Librarian said in understanding, letting Vetinari have his hand back. Ponder snapped back to life and skittered off through the feathers. “My lord, if I could ask you just a few questions?” he said, returning with a pencil and clipboard. Ridcully rolled his eyes. “Yes?” Vetinari replied. Ponder had been expecting more resistance than that, or at least the word ‘why’. He shoved his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and traced his pencil down the clipboard. “Alright, sir, what’s six times two hundred and three?” “Arithmetic?” Ridcully said, “Stibbons, the man was a penguin a minute ago--” Vetinari held up a hand to him, not taking his eyes off of Ponder. “No, I understand entirely. You’re testing my cognitive function.” Ponder nodded nervously, “Yes, sir, it’s very important, on account of you having had a smaller brain than usual for the past few days.” “Yes, quite sensible,” Vetinari said. “Six times two hundred and three, you said?” “Yes, sir.” “Twelve hundred and eighteen.” “That’s right,

sir. What’s the square root of thirty-seven?” Vetinari’s eyes moved for a moment as he ran the calculation in his head. “Six point oh eight three,” he said. Ponder’s mouth hung open for a moment in surprise, then he checked his clipboard and nodded. “Yes, I would have also accepted as correct six, six point one, or if you had said ‘I have no idea’.” “That’s what I would have said,” said Ridcully. “Ook,” agreed the Librarian. Vetinari hummed with a tiny smile. “Oh point three’s not a real number…” Ridcully muttered as Ponder made notes. “Point oh eight three,” Vetinari corrected. Ponder gestured concurrently with the end of his pencil, “Also, oh point three is a real number, we call it a third.” Ridcully huffed, “What’s wrong with just calling it that, then?” Ponder rolled his eyes, “My lord, can you tell me the fundamental relation of a right angled triangle?” “‘It will be taken as fact that the area of the square on the hypotenuse side is equal to the sum of the areas of the squares on the other two sides’,” Vetinari replied as if reciting from an old textbook, “Its equation being expressed as A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared.” “Correct,” Ponder ticked on his clipboard. “One more, how many feet are there in a mile?” “Imperial or Genuan?” he asked. “Quirmian actually…” Ponder replied, noting something. Then he laughed, “no, I’m just kidding, that's all I wanted.” “Yes, since Quirm has used the imperial or Ankhian mile since fifteen-seven.” “Yes, thank you sir.” “You’re quite welcome,” Vetinari said. “You are not found wanting?” Ponder took a look at his clipboard, “No, everything seems to be in order, sir. You might not remember the last few days clearly, but that’s natural.” “I shan’t let it concern me,” Vetinari said. He looked down, then up at Ridcully, “Mustrum, what have you done to your fingers?” Three of the Archchancellor’s fingers on his left hand were an odd shade of purple. “What? Oh, must’ve… shut them in a drawer, I suppose,” he said unconvincingly. Vetinari didn’t raise an eyebrow, “I see. You ought to be more careful.” Ridcully chuckled awkwardly, “Yes, yes I ought to…” “Do you think we could do something about all of these feathers, Archchancellor?” Ponder asked, changing the subject. Ridcully hummed, looking around for a moment. “Well it wouldn’t be too difficult to…” he mumbled to himself. “None of you chaps move! Especially not you, Librarian.” He made a complicated gesture in the air, and in a dazzling flash of octarine most of the feathers were replaced with stacks of fat cushions. Ponder blinked, “Well, that’s certainly better than something living.” Ridcully picked bits of stray feather off of his robes. “Not the most efficient conversion, but yes, not squirrels for one thing.” Ponder coughed self-consciously, “Yes… not squirrels. Thank you, Archchancellor.” “Don’t mention it lad. Since nothing’s shouting at us, Stibbons, should we have people in?” “Uh…” Ponder inspected a small device pinned to his lapel. “Yes, things should be returning to background by now sir.” The Archchancellor seemingly didn’t care what this meant as long as Ponder was agreeing with him. The Librarian poked a cushion to test its squishiness and found it satisfactory. “Good, that’s what we like to hear,” Ridcully said. He looked at the Librarian, “Have them in.” The Librarian frowned at being ordered to abandon his perfect cushion, but he got up and knuckled to the door. “Oook!”

Drumknott opened his eyes as the latest flash of light faded away. The wizards around him were discussing quietly, a few of them peering in through the glass in the door. It seemed… There seemed to be some confusion. It had been several minutes since the Archchancellor had left his side and entered the room after Ponder, and aside from a few flashes of light, little had filtered into the corridor. He thought he had made out more than just Ridcully’s booming voice, but the door was thick, designed to keep magic from escaping it, and that mostly kept sound inside too. There was a muffled ‘ook’, and the door was pulled open by the Librarian, half dangling from the handle with one of his long arms nearly at its full length. “Ook,” he said again, beckoning. The wizards jostled for a minute, none of them really wanting to be the first in the room, until one of them found himself pushed forward and they filed in. The word 'academic' also applied to schoolboys, as it were… though Rufus was fairly sure Vetinari had come up with that himself, and he had been talking about Lord Downey at the time… Anyway, speaking of Vetinari… His line of sight automatically adjusted itself down as he entered the room. There were… cushions everywhere and, Rufus sneezed, soft down feathers. He opened his eyes again, blinking, and lifted his head to the sight of a familiar black-clad form. Ponder was figuring his way through the stacks of cushions towards his work table, Ridcully had just walked away to speak to senior members of faculty. Rufus scarcely felt his feet begin to move. He rushed forward, startling a few wizards, kicking up feathers, and latched onto his lordship in his excitement. There was wobbling as their balance equalised. Rufus hardly noticed. In fact, he didn’t register the action he was performing as a hug until he felt Vetinari’s hand pat his back. Rufus stepped back, Vetinari looked completely fine. His height was his usual, his nose was no more beak-like than it was meant to be. He had the right number of fingers, he was standing like he normally would -- if in the slightly lopsided way he stood when his leg was bothering him. In fact everything about him appeared normal, except… hm. Well that didn't really look bad as much as… he would tell him later. “I am to assume then, Mr Drumknott, that you have missed me?” Vetinari asked. He flushed, “Ah… yes, sir…” Vetinari chuckled, “Well, I cannot say that I do not find it flattering, but I would much prefer that you do not knock me over.” “Sorry, sir…” he looked down at his shoes. "And perhaps you might offer a little more warning the next time?” Rufus looked up, there was a fond, amused look in Vetinari’s eyes and it did something to them. His brow furrowed, and Rufus realised he had been staring. “Is something the matter?” “No, my lord!” That was too much. He cleared his throat.  “No, my lord,” Rufus said more calmly. Vetinari traced his outline briefly, but let the matter go. He did not increase the distance between them, instead his posturing altered to suggest that Rufus ought to stay exactly where he was as he might shortly be required to provide support. The wizards seemed to be congratulating each other, though for what Drumknott was entirely unsure. In his eyes returning his lordship to normal was entirely Ponder’s achievement. The Librarian had settled down comfortably in a nest of cushions. No longer being spoken to, or impulsively hugged, Vetinari seemed to be taking stock of himself. “Strange question, my lord,” Ponder said loud enough to be heard from across the room, catching Rufus off-guard. “Do you have any… comments, observations, that sort of thing… regarding the past few days?” “It is an odd experience, being turned into something one is not,” Vetinari said, examining his fingers. Remarkably, he had reverted to humanity with his rings intact. “I have the bizarre recollection that I may have been a lizard once.” The congregated wizards looked at each other, a little horrified. Drumknott looked at him, and them, in bafflement. After a moment of confused eye

contact, Ponder and Ridcully shrugged at each other. Whatever incident his lordship was referring to, if it was indeed an incident at all, was evidently before either of their time. “Are you… sure you were a lizard, my lord?” Ponder asked. Vetinari looked up from the marvel of once again having elbows. His brow furrowed, as if he had not thought to question this exact reality until that moment. “Now that you ask…” he began, his eyes glazed slightly in deep search of his memory, “not at all. Around… I believe it to be a week of that time is rather a blur.” Some of his weight shifted onto Rufus. To his quiet relief, he was able to confirm that Vetinari definitely did not smell like fish. “I’d think you might have been ill, old chap…” Ridcully said, giving him a look that he would usually save for the bursar. Vetinari did not seem to notice, or at least he ignored it. “Yes… that would make rather more sense…” The wizards relaxed. Ponder made a few short notes. The Librarian adjusted the position of his cushions, apparently unaware of the tension that had briefly filled the air. “Right,” Ponder said, “if there’s nothing that you…” he trailed off, his line of sight suggesting he may have just noticed what Rufus had noticed. He shook himself off and cleared his throat, “Sorry, if there’s nothing, no concerns, you’d like to bring up, my lord, I don't have reason to keep you any longer.” The Librarian gave him a slightly strange look and resumed enjoying his cushions. “There is nothing of which I am aware,” Vetinari said. He looked at Drumknott for objection, Rufus shook his head. “I will only thank you for your quick response to this matter.” “Oh, you’re welcome sir,” Ponder said quickly, “it was no bother, any time.” He coughed, “...not to suggest we make a habit of it, of course.” “No, I would rather we did not.” Ridcully suddenly reasserted himself, scattering a few cushions as he came across the room. “Well, I’m glad this is sorted with no hard feelings, old chap,” he said. “Quite, Archchancellor,” Vetinari said, his tone subtly suggesting that 'hard feelings' had been very narrowly avoided. Ridcully seemed to detect this. There was a slightly nervous note to his laugh. “We’ll see you out then, avoiding any wrong turns and such.” “Indeed…”

Vetinari didn't appear to be really listening to Ridcully as they made their way back to the atrium at the front of the university. They passed the Great Hall, and there was still a large amount of glitter leading to and from it. Not currently needed for support, Drumknott was nonetheless paying quite a lot of attention to his lordship’s walking. There was something… he wasn't sure. Most surfaces of the university were so old that they didn't stay level for long, which made not tripping over things a little tricky even without extenuating factors. He was aware of Vetinari responding noncommittally to something the Archchancellor said about future events. Navigating the buildings took far less time when your guide wasn't an orangutan and you weren't following behind a penguin, and they were now outside. On sight of them, the footman seemed confused as to where Vetinari had come from, and the carriage driver quickly disposed of a cigarette. Drumknott gave both men a look in which he tried to communicate that there would be no explanations. “Faster than we expected, m’lord,” the footman said. “Aye, usually longer with wizards…” agreed the driver. Vetinari hummed, taking note of the gardening gloves. It occurred to Drumknott that he hadn't seen exactly where the footman had been bitten. Somewhere in the vicinity of his hand he supposed, but with the gloves and the man’s livery, no bruising was visible. Not that it really mattered...

The footman closed the carriage door, leaving them to settle before the horses started off. There could only be worse times to tell him, Drumknott supposed... “Uh… sir, you’ve got some…” Drumknott said, gesturing to a streak of white in Vetinari’s beard. “Ah…” Vetinari examined the streak in the window and brushed his fingers over it. “What would we do about that, do you think? Dye it perhaps…” Drumknott hummed uncertainly. “I would be concerned of it being a little too close to your mouth, sir.” “Yes, you are right…” Vetinari shook his head, giving Drumknott the impression he was forcing himself not to look at his reflection in the glass. “Well, for tonight I shall shave and we can wait to see if it comes back.” “For tonight, sir?” “Yes,” Vetinari said. “We’re having dinner with the Genuan ambassador. You can’t possibly have forgotten.” “No, sir, I remember.” “Good,” Vetinari looked out of the window. “Speaking of which, Mr Drumknott, you do not happen to know if the menagerie has a penguin?” “...I don’t believe so, sir.” “Ah. I wouldn’t suppose there would be any chance of borrowing one perhaps?” “Not a living penguin, sir, at least not on short notice.” “Very well.” “Might I… ask why you would have wanted one, sir?” “Oh, no, it isn’t important,” Vetinari said, finding glitter on his robe. Rufus thought for a few moments, then he frowned. “Sir, you were not thinking to play a practical joke on the ambassador?” “No,” Vetinari said self-defensively. “No, not at all. I’m shocked you would assume that of me.” He looked out the window again, “Simply shocked.” “Not at all, sir, I had no desire to cause offence,” Drumknott said. “It merely passed through my mind, sir.” Vetinari was looking at him suddenly. “Mr Drumknott,” he said in feigned shock. “I would not have taken you for a practical joke kind of man.” Drumknott could have bit his tongue. After almost three days of not being properly understood the sarcasm was evidently coming out in force. Instead he looked at Vetinari placidly. “I am not, sir,” he said. “No,” Vetinari laced his fingers together, sensing non-participation. “Neither am I. Well, the ambassador will be in the city within the next few hours.” “He will indeed, sir.” “We are meeting at six, and before that is -- if I recall -- the tailors at three?” Rufus nodded, “Ten past three to be exact, sir.” Vetinari smiled, “I would think that leaves us plenty of time for tea, don’t you?” “Tea should not put us behind schedule, sir,” Drumknott replied. “No, I should think not. Driver,” Vetinari said, gently knocking on the little hatch behind his seat. It slid back. “We will be going to Mrs Grant’s Tearooms, thank you.” There was a short affirmative and the hatch closed again. The carriage carried onto its altered route. Vetinari took off his rings and stretched out his fingers before putting them on again. “You must tell me if I did anything to embarrass myself,” he said. Drumknott bit his tongue. He could tell him about chasing the ball, and breaking vases, and about biting Vimes, and Ridcully, and the footman, but… He shook his head. “Nothing that I am aware of, sir.” Vetinari seemed skeptical. “There are no… explanations owed to anyone?” “Not that I can think,” he fiddled with a loose button on his jacket. “Wuffles was overjoyed with you.” Vetinari hummed in amusement, “I’m sure he was. I will owe him a few good throws of the ball however.” “There was a letter yesterday from the Duchess of Quirm, sir. I have not opened it.” “Ah, I will have to see what that is,” Vetinari said. “Did you find the missing copy of last year’s trading agreement?” “Uh…” Rufus looked at his shoes, “no, sir… I’m afraid that I had forgotten about it in the…” he cleared his throat, “disruption of the past few days, sir.” “Understandable, understandable…” Vetinari was looking at his reflection again. “There is nothing else amiss with my appearance you wish to inform me of, Mr Drumknott?” Drumknott examined him. “Everything else appears to be in order, sir.” “Thank you.”

Mrs Grant’s, their favoured tearooms, were not too far from the university. As such it was not long at all until the carriage slowed, the driver bringing the horses to a gentle stop as they arrived outside. Vetinari stepped down first, taking a few moments to stretch out his back and shoulders. Drumknott stayed behind a little, watching. He had been sure there was something… odd about the way Vetinari had been walking as they left the university. Now he saw it. He was waddling slightly, it wasn’t just his leg bothering him, though that did appear to be true. He resisted the urge to groan. His lordship was still walking like a penguin. Rufus caught up, and Vetinari leaned close to him. “Drumknott,” he said quietly, “please do not hesitate to remind me that I have knees.”

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Epilogue

“I do wish you would tell me exactly what you’ve done to your wrist, Sam,” Sybil said for the hundredth time. “I’ve said,” Vimes insisted as they came up the steps into the embassy. “I don’t know what I’ve done to it.” Sybil gave him a look and picked up his hand. “Half of your hand is purple, dear. You must have some idea,” she prodded it. Resisting the urge to curse, he yanked his hand away from her. “Sybil, that hurts!” “Darling, if your wrist is broken…” “My wrist isn’t broken, and I don’t know what I’ve done to it. Just… trust me please.” Sybil hummed, “I worry sometimes, Sam.” Vimes sighed and pinched his nose. “Yes, I know you do… but not right now, alright?” The door to the dining room was opened by a bewildered servant reluctant to interrupt husband and wife. The quiet conversation already occurring around the table paused. “Good evening, your grace,” Vetinari said brightly, clean-shaven and not a penguin. Sybil elbowed Vimes’s default response out of the way. “Good evening,” he said, nodding. “Ambassador,” Vetinari said to the smart-clad man sitting opposite him, “as I have of course mentioned previously, it is my pleasure to introduce Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil, the duke and duchess of Ankh.” The Ambassador smiled dazzlingly and stood up. “I’m very glad to meet you, your grace, and you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” Something about the hard R’s and barely present T’s of the Genuan accent made Vimes want to punch it in the face, not the ambassador specifically, but definitely his accent. “Pleased to meet you too,” Vimes said, shaking the man’s hand. He let his attention slide as the Ambassador turned to greeting Sybil, to Vetinari sitting at the table in a new suit as if he hadn’t been a penguin the last time Vimes had seen him, and Drumknott beside him, looking as if he was going to fall asleep before the main course. As they took their seats, Sybil noticed the same. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked. Drumknott woke up sharply. “Hm? Ah, yes, I’m fine ma’am,” he said, straightening his glasses. “We’ve had a rather busy few days,” Vetinari said, “what with final preparations and such.” Yes, Vimes expected they had, Drumknott especially. Not because of any kind of preparations either. Another word starting with ‘P’, which was much shorter... not that one. “Well…” he said, “I’m glad you've made it tonight, I almost thought you wouldn't the other day.” Sybil looked between him and Vetinari. “Why’s that, dear?” “Yes,” the Ambassador said, “were you sick?” Vetinari shot Vimes a glance. Drumknott looked to be nodding off again. “Well no, I was not sick per se,” he said, “though I was hardly myself.” “Oh darling,” Sybil said, “you really must pay attention to that.” Vetinari did not roll his eyes, which was testament to his magnitudes of restraint. “I assure you, your grace, I do.” Well that was rude and he was definitely going to be due a talking to once the Ambassador had gone. Vetinari nudged Drumknott, who woke up again. “Rufus, I would really rather you didn't fall asleep.” That Drumknott did not even show the slightest sign of wanting to hit Vetinari for this was another testament to restraint. “Sorry, sir,” he said sheepishly. “Well,” said the Ambassador, “I say as long as no one starts snoring…” Sybil barely restrained her sudden laughter to acceptable levels. “I’m sorry,” she said, her face quite red, “that took me by surprise.” “I think it caught us all,” Vetinari said, slightly lost for words but certainly amused. The mood changed for the better, Vimes once again felt permitted to speak. “So,” he said conversationally, “how have things been in Genua?” “Oh!” the Ambassador beamed, “Let me get started…”

[notbecauseofvictories]

Angua von Überwald - knighted under lady Sybil, anything with a woman in armor

Angua balked when the Patrician—old enough that the cane was no longer a statement but a necessity, and Drumknott sometimes loudly announced that Lord Kniepper was to his left, sir, yes, a little further left than that—informed her she was to be named a Duchess.

“Sir,” Angua said, and then found herself drawing several blanks at once, all of them equally unhelpful. She hoped His Lordship’s eyesight was bad enough that he couldn’t see her boggling at him. He was smirking, very slightly, which made her think he could. “With respect, but—why?”

“Tradition, Commander,” Vetinari said smoothly. “The Commander of the Watch, historically, is a ducal title. It seems only right that with the…passing of Sir Samuel, and your own ascendancy to—”

“Mister Vimes was only a duke because he married Lady Sybil!” Angua interrupted, too aghast to care about the breach of protocol. But then Vetinari beat her to it, with such a ludicrous suggestion; she was a von Überwald, she knew how pedigree worked.* No one got to be a duke except by marriage or blood.**

“Commander,” Vetinari said silkily, “are you contesting tradition?”

“How is it tradition if it’s only been one man?” Angua said wildly, and then, at the look on Vetinari’s face very quickly added, “Sir.”

“All traditions begin with one man, Commander,” Vetinari answered, steepling his fingers before him. “For example, you will remember how, not so long ago, Ankh-Morpork was a dictatorship. They were dark times—but now we embrace a proud democratic tradition.”

Angua blinked, thinking about how just the other day Young Sam had been complaining to her about the fact that there was no mechanism to force the Patrician to listen to the new Witmoot.*** 

“Yes, sir.”

Vetinari looked at her, and the chilling effect was somehow compounded by the milky-white pupils, and the fact that he was staring somewhere over her right ear. “I insist, Commander von Überwald. Furthermore, Lady Vimes has agreed.”

“Oh, good. Er…agreed to what?”

“That the title of Duke—or Duchess, in your case—of the Ankh should pass with the command of the Watch.”

Angua stared.

She opened her mouth to—then shut it again with a quiet click of her teeth. And then, possibly, stared some more. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you, my lord,” she finally said, in the same tone of voice she’d once asked Wolfgang where he got all that red paint from.****

“We both know your hearing is excellent, Commander.”

“What would—Young Sam will be the Duke of Ankh, when Sybil passes. That’s how….that’s how it works.” Angua felt as though she’d somehow stumbled into an alternative dimension. The wizards talked about those; Carrot had dragged her to a dinner lecture just the other week by Esk Smith, who’d talked at length about the trousers of time and the starched shirt of twelve-dimensional space. It’d sounded like a lot of silly buggers to Angua, but the wine had been good.

“Mm,” Vetinari said solemnly, a gleam somewhere in his deep-set eyes. “That’s how it worked, Commander—worked, past tense. We must move with the times, you know. And as of—oh, this Sunday, shall we say—the Duchy of Ankh will be a title granted and revoked with the command of the Watch.”

“Why?” Angua asked, though it sounded some very undignified combination of petulant and incredulous. Her hair was almost entirely grey these days, but something about Vetinari made her feel young and very snotty, all of five years old.*****

Vetinari shrugged, and it was so startling that Angua almost missed his next words. “Why not, Commander?”

.

“This is insane,” Angua moaned. The brand new armor clanked when she buried her face in her hands, it was extremely unfortunate. (All she could hear was Vimes’ voice in her head, complaining about the damn shiny dress armor, all the metal eagles and hippos and flourish-y nonsense. But Angua’s armor had molded breasts, so she felt fairly certain she’d won this round.******)

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Lady Sybil said, leaning forward in her chair—Angua could heard it creak—to pat Angua’s hand. “You know how Sam cared for you.”

“Mister Vimes hated being a duke, he’d only ever wish it on his worst enemy,” Angua snapped, and then immediately felt horribly guilty. She lifted her head up, grimaced at Sybil. “Sorry, your ladyship, that wasn’t…”

Sybil was laughing, Angua could see her shoulders shaking with it. The hand covering her mouth was faded to papery white, deeply lined; Angua felt an unexpected pang, the evidence that Sybil was not the indomitable and fearsome woman she had been. It wasn’t as though Angua had missed the last few decades—Young Sam becoming a man, Colon retiring and Mister Vimes quietly preparing to follow; new cadets every year, growing into their armor and even leaving, starting watch-houses elsewhere. There were Sammies wherever there were clacks towers these days, and some places too remote for clacks towers to reach.

Just last month a young woman had marched into Angua’s office clutching a notice from a Borogravian general, asking if they would please train her up as a Sammy, and then send her back post-haste. They had a peacetime law-and-order to be getting on with. (Angua mostly remembered the signature, “Polly” and crossed out, “Oliver” crossed out, and then just “Perks”.)

“He did,” Sybil chuckled. “Sam hated everything to do with it. More proof, I suppose,” she said. At Angua’s curious look, Sybil shook her head, smiling ruefully. “That he loved me. Enough to outweigh the rest.”

Angua decided not to mention the tears in her eyes.

“Why, then?” she asked, gesturing helplessly, and Sybil smiled. 

“Havelock has this idea,” she said, and it took Angua a moment to remember that the Patrician had a given name. “That eventually, he’ll die. And it’ll be harder for the various lords and dukes and—suchlike to fight over who will be patrician after him, if they’re all busy with the Witmoot, or trying to run guilds, write for the Times, and command the watch. If it’s expected that they have made themselves useful, in the interim.”

Angua blinked. “I thought Young Sam…?”

“Goodness, no. Havelock’s asked him, of course, but he’d rather community organize and have people pour Ankh-water on his head when he tries to register them to vote. He was the one who suggested we give up the title, you know.”

Angua thought—not for the first time—that Young Sam was an odd sort.*******  

“So making me the Duchess of Ankh—”

“Not you, Angua. The Commander of the Watch. When you retire, you will be recusing yourself from the title, and your successor will be knighted in turn. Havelock’s assured me it will all be very orderly. He made provisions for it.”

“Oh, good,” Angua said faintly.

Sybil smiled in a way that, in a less charitable light, might have been referred to as a smirk. “Exactly, Commander. Now, pull yourself together so you can wheel me out. I imagine it’s almost time.”

Angua exhaled gustily, and stood. (The armor clattered, which was still unfortunate. She wondered if she should have tried harder to change it, maybe Cheery could have buffed the nipples out—) Gripping the posts of Lady Sybil’s chair, she pushed her out of the tent, and toward where the crowd had gathered around the makeshift stage.

“Just…” Angua stared blindly ahead, her mind churning over. “Do you think he’d be proud?”

Sybil reached up, and squeezed Angua’s hand very tightly. “Dear girl,” Lady Sybil said. Her other hand was tight around the hilt of the sword—a blunt, ugly thing, standard watchman-issue, and Angua swallowed to see those knuckles so white around the hilt. “I very much think he already was.”

 * In several senses of the word.

** The blood did not have to be yours. There were many ducal coronets snatched up from corpses and plunked down on the victorious bastard’s head; saying, “You and what army?” tended to have that effect. But blood was blood, it would out. Especially if you stuck someone full of holes.

*** The name was from the Old Morporkian, meaning a “Meeting of the Minds.” But as Mrs. Crisplock-Worde had written, it was something of a misnomer. While their meetings were frequent, there were very few minds involved.This made the Witmoot either A Grand Experiment In Republican Representation, or the most ill-conceived band of young gadabouts elected to public office.

Before his death, Vimes had had some very interesting to things say about his son’s preoccupation with “cobblestone-level politics” and “community organizing.” Namely, that communities weren’t meant to be organized (an acceptable level of hectic chaos would do) and if the gods meant Vimeses to get into politics, they wouldn’t have given them axes.

**** Between being a watchman and being a wolf, Angua had a lot of experience talking to people whose grip on the ins-and-outs of reality was tenuous. Some of them were even people.

***** In human years, not dog years. The canine part of her brain put Vetinari in the same category as her Uncle Jorgen, who had once snapped a bear’s neck between his jaws, and still insisted on carrying her around by the scruff of her neck. It was the same sort of—terror and awe, the knowledge that gentleness was a choice. Not a natural state of affairs.

****** Angua could imagine Vimes now, going purple in the face and chomping on his cigar, insisting that his was clearly built for a bigger man, and wasn’t that embarrassing, a deliberate slight—but Angua’s had nipples. 

*******  Sometimes crossing a purebred with a mix resulted in a stronger bloodline. Other times, all the deliberate inbreeding collided with the bloody-minded perverseness of a mutt, and the result was a ball of wiry-haired crazy that enjoyed savaging bigger dogs. Young Sam was very much the latter.