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Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the city Watch, Duke of Ankh, and inarguably one of the most important political figures in the largest and most powerful city on the Disc, stamped down the street. In another man this action wouldn’t be at all unusual— frustration is the general status for most of humanity, and in Ankh Morpork stamping is one of the only sure ways to keep your feet moderately clear of the sundry leavings usually found on the streets of a city inhabited by over a million people. But Sam Vimes was a copper—and probably the biggest proponent of that certain ambling walk that allows coppers everywhere to move at a seemingly innocuous pace—and yet still be in exactly the right spot to catch you by the shirt collar.
Sam Vimes was a master of the copper’s walk, but tonight his feet were falling slightly harder than they needed to, and his eyes were hidden under a heavy brow. If there had been anyone else out in the deep blue night they might have even heard his teeth grinding together as he passed.
As he walked his pace seemed to slow, his feet started to swing out in their usual fashion and the tension in his face relaxed, even if only slightly. He let out a long breath, forming vague clouds ahead of him in the cold night. This was what he knew. Walking the streets, patrolling the city—everything else was just frippery. The long meetings, endless soirees, greeting one dignitary after another. Vimes could not fathom why Vetinari had agreed to have this bloody convention in his city. All of Ankh Morpork was overrun with dignitaries, and dignitary’s aids, and maids, and footmen, and armmen, and butlers, slightly irritating dogs, overbearing aunts, underwhelming body guards—everything was a mess. The Watch usually had a good handle on the city, they were getting their feet more solidly on the ground every day, and then Vetinari—bloody Vetinari—had to go and agree to have the damn Genua Convention anniversary in this city. Vimes still didn’t really understand the whole thing.
Apparently it had started years ago after some great war or another when one side had used a long lost magical device to turn their opponents into budgies, or something. Which didn’t seem particularly bad, until the massive increase in the bird population edged out the indigenous species and became a menace to the country’s grain supply, leading to massive bouts of starvation for the entire eastern seaboard.
The whole thing was pretty ridiculous, but the big wigs decided that they ought to have some sort of guidelines for that sort of thing, so they had a big meeting in Genua and laid down some mutually agreed on terms about magic and it’s uses in warfare. It had all happened long ago, and these days it was just a big excuse for rich people to spend money. It was a veritable who’s who of the Disc—everyone jockeying for an invite and a chance to one up the rest of the nobs in their home country. The last one got so big Genua finally declined to host it—something about the strain on their supply routes and the pressure on their police force.
Vimes sighed at the last bit. Genua was a fairly small city—he couldn’t imagine what this lot would have done to it had they been allowed to descend like the proverbial Omnian locust. Even Ankh Morpork was having trouble keeping everything in line—people just kept arriving! It seemed everyone had decided that now was the time to visit that one manky relative who lived in the city—everyone has at least one relative in Ankh Morpork, usually the odd one that no one likes to talk about. Most of them didn’t even know what the Genua Conventions were for; just that they were Important and anyone who was anyone would be there.
Vimes turned another corner, allowing his feet to carry him so his brain could stew on the week’s events. He’d been to so many parties and been introduced to so many new faces he’d stopped bothering to keep up with it anymore. He just reverted to the blank, yet jovial stare he’d created for his ducal duties, and let Sybil or Vetinari guide him around the room like an inbred dog in a frilly collar.
He sighed again, pausing at the corner of a building to light a cigar. He wasn’t supposed to be out patrolling. He wasn’t even in uniform—he was still in his bloody dress wear for gods’ sake. He’d been so desperate to get out of that last party he’d bolted as soon as he’d had a free moment. He had much too much to do to be out here—Watch escorts to organize, a group of smugglers to deal with, paperwork to do— there was always more bloody paperwork. He mused that his office could almost be described as a forest-- were someone inclined to be slightly poetic about it.
Vimes was jolted out of a depressing vision of the paper-forest office at the Watch house when there was a subtle shift in the air of the street around him.
Vimes very slowly and deliberately stubbed out his cigar and replaced it carefully in the little silver case he always kept with him. He moved away from the wall towards the middle of the street, ambling at his usual pace, nothing out of the ordinary. He’d spotted one of them already, and judging by the one man’s placement it would be a safe bet that there was another behind that shed—suddenly something slammed into him from above, dragging him to the ground and knocking the wind from his lungs, screeching a high pitched wail as it came down.
Bloody hell had someone actually climbed up into the eves of that rickety old building? If it wasn’t for another pair of hands coming in to yank him up Vimes might be inclined to think someone fell on him by accident. There was no way that greasy excuse for a roof could support a grown man for long. It was a miracle half the buildings in the city were even vertical considering the shoddy way they’d been built.
Despite being winded from his fall Vimes managed to land a good solid punch to the man’s gut as he tried to haul the commander up. His assailant doubled over with a gasp just as another blow knocked Vimes forward.
“It’s a bloody Watchman!” One of the attackers was shouting, Vimes thought it was the one who’s kidneys he’d just introduced to his fist, but he didn’t bother to look as he swung his elbow up to connect with his second attacker’s jaw. There was another high pitched screech as something short slammed into his ribs and took him off balance again, sending shooting pains through his ribcage as he went down.
“It’s not just a watchman—that’s old Stone Face hisself!!” Vimes rolled awkwardly as something was still clinging to his middle, coming up and using his momentum to take down the second man at the knees.
“You said we were gonna go fer the next nob ta come down the street!” The voice sounded young—mid-teens at the most.
“Yeah but I meant someone foreign—Not the damn Commander of the Watch!” The man under Vimes struggled to try and shove him off, kicking him in the chest. Vimes grabbed at the man’s legs, pain shooting through is torso as he twisted awkwardly.
“Well you didn’t say that, did you Den!” The teen sounded very put upon. There was a shuffling behind Vimes as he planted a fist firmly in a solar plexus. The man beneath Vimes let out a little wheedling cough as his eyes went wide, and then he fell back against the cobbles.
“Ack come on lad-- forget Jeb he’s done for!” Vimes turned in time to see a two figures barreling down the street at top speed, the larger of the two fairly dragging the boy behind him. They disappeared around a corner with the fading shriek of “Well I didn’t know it was him, did I?!” echoing through the alley. Vimes struggled to his feet, breathing hard.
Just as he did a light appeared from the other end of the street.
“Halt in the name of the Watch!” Corporal Reg Shoe appeared out of the gloom; some of it clinging to his grey-green features as he, Sargent Colon, and two other Watchmen Vimes recognized but couldn’t place names on approached him.
“We heard yellin’ Commander.” Sargent Colon looked at the man on the ground, then up at Vimes.
“Two more men just went down that way-- one large man and a kid, 14 maybe? Both in dark cloaks with cloth over their faces. Probably heading down into the Shades.” The two corporals Vimes didn’t know, and Corporal Shoe took off after the thieves, their boots slapping satisfactorily on the cobbles as they disappeared around the corner. Vimes was grinning as he placed a foot on the softly moaning man at his feet.
“Unlicensed thieves, Commander?” Sergeant Colon looked at the disheveled man again.
“Probably thought they could make a quick dollar by rolling someone new to the city.” Vimes reached into his pocket for his cigar case. His side felt a bit damp. These thugs hadn’t seemed like they’d put him through that much of a workout—but it had been a while since anyone had jumped him like that. Ye gods, Vimes thought, I really am getting old.
“Ah yes. Seems like we’ve been getting a lot of that lately with all this Convention business. A lot of foreigners in the city right now Commander, it’s just not right.”
“Yeah. Terrible how people are coming to the city expecting its citizens to abide the law.” Vimes sagged. He felt tired to his bones all of a sudden. Colon missed the pointed sarcasm and nodded slowly, closing his eyes like a wise elder imparting wisdom to the unruly youth.
“Yes sir, this many strange folk all coming in, expecting us Morporkians to drop everything to accommodate them—it’s just not right.” Vimes shook his head and went to open his cigar case. The usually bright rectangle was dark against the night, and slick. Vimes blinked a few times to try and bring it into clearer focus. His fingers slipped against the latch as he tried to get it open, the darkness smeared over his fingers too. Vimes shook his head, trying to shake of the lightness that was creeping in the edge of his vision. He looked back at his hand, trailing it from his pants pocket, up his torso to the side of his abdomen. There was a large patch of wetness over his ribcage, he could feel it oozing over his hand, and each breath sent a little string of pain shooting out.
I’ve been stabbed. Vimes thought, vaguely surprised. That certainly hasn’t happened in a while. I wonder when… He was having some trouble remembering the fight as more than a flurry of limbs. “Ah, the kid…” Vimes murmured to himself.
“…And then I noticed all those Klatchians that came in the day before yesterday and I—Commander Vimes?”
Vimes took the cigar case and carefully replaced it in his pocket, moving slowly, almost like his hands were moving through some of his mother’s famous distressed pudding.
“Sir? Commander Vimes? Are you alright sir?” Vimes turned slowly to look back down into Colon’s worried face as he realized the Sergeant was talking to him. Vimes stared into the round face, putting his bloodied hand on the man’s shoulder as he grinned unnervingly.
“Sergeant, tell Carrot to inform the palace I won’t be attending that Omnian dinner tomorrow night.” And then he fainted.
AH.
Vimes blinked blearily in the half-light.
IT’S BEEN A WHILE, COMMANDER.
Vimes tried to focus on the large dark shape in front of him.
I FEEL CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER.
“Hnnnrrr—?“ This roughly translated to: “What do you mean by that, and could you please tell me where I am?”
ON THE BIRTH OF YOUR SON.
“Thharrrrknn…” Vimes was fairly certain he’d said “Thank you, but would you mind telling me what happened?”
Suddenly there was an orange light in front of him, and muffled voices. They sounded upset, and someone was yelling something about "pig headed carelessness".
HMM. IT SEEMS YOU AND I WILL MEET AGAIN AFTER ALL.
The large dark shape seemed to recede.
UNTIL NEXT TIME, COMMANDER. ALWAYS A PLEASURE.
Vimes gave up trying to see through the orange haze of light and slipped blissfully back into unconsciousness.
Her Grace, Lady Sybil Deirdre Olgivanna Ramkin-Vimes, The Duchess of Ankh, and the founder of the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons sighed heavily as she gathered up the tightly wound lengths of cotton gauze Doctor Lawn had left her after his visit the day before.
“I think he sees it as some sort of victory, really.” She said as she turned to face her companion. “Like he’s still a real copper because people are still trying to stab him in the street.” She fussed a bit with the tray in her hands, gauze piled in neat rolls next to a washcloth and a bowl of warm water. “I do wish he’d be more careful.” She looked wistfully towards the stairs and the bedrooms beyond.
“Don’t we all.” The figure across from her was clad in black, languidly leaning back in the round bulk of the lumpy chair he was sprawled in. His dark figure was a stark contrast to the light shades of the Slightly Pink Drawing Room, and Sybil rather liked how out of place he looked in it. Vetinari stood up as she moved towards the door, opening it for her lightly and escorting her through with the easy grace of someone in complete control of his or her surroundings. “I believe your husband takes great pleasure in frustrating any plans laid for him—although I rather doubt he would go to these lengths just to get out of a few weeks of diplomatic dinners.” Vetinari followed Sybil up the stairs, placing a light hand on her elbow to steady her when they reached the top. “Although we are talking about Sir Samuel Vimes.” Sybil sighed again as they moved down the corridor.
“I really thought he would change after Sam was born.” Vetinari raised his eyebrows.
“Did you?” Sybil gave him an exasperated look.
“Well—not in essentials, of course, but I did think he would stop wandering around the dangerous parts of the city in the middle of the night at least!” They paused in front of the door to the bedroom. “It was funny, you know, when I saw him lying there at Doctor Lawn’s, all I could think about was what I would tell Sam. “ She shuffled some of the gauze on the tray absently. “I still don’t know. He woke up and started barking orders before I could get too wrapped up in all of it.” She smiled up at Vetinari as she opened the door.
Sam Vimes was sitting up in bed trying to read the Times. It had been a struggle to even get that far—the stiches in his side protested at every twinge, and the layers of cotton wrapped around his torso felt like they were strangling him. He turned another page of the newspaper despite the protests from his abdomen, trying to find the section containing photos of inappropriately shaped vegetables, and to ignore everything and anything pertaining to the aftermath of the convention. As he finally located what he was looking for he heard soft footsteps just outside the door, and the low voice of his wife getting louder as she opened it.
“Good morning Sam!” she trilled as she swept in, beaming at him over her tray of gauze and gods knew what else.
“Hallo Syb. Come to re-package me already have you?” The commander sounded glum as she set the tray down on the table next to him.
“Doctor Lawn said your bandage was to be changed twice a day Sam. You may be anxious to ignore your doctor’s advice but I’m afraid I’m not going to give you much choice on this one.” She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead affectionately. “Havelock came by to see how you were getting on.” Vimes caught sight of the dark figure as he came into the room without a flourish. He nodded to Vimes as he stationed himself against the wall at the foot of the bed.
“Your wife tells me you’re recovery has been most expedient, Commander.”
“I’m, muddling through, sir.” Vimes felt at more of a disadvantage than usual. He didn’t like being seated while Vetinari loomed over him—the man was an expert loomer, he loomed at you from across the room, sometimes just talking about him made you feel loomed at. He wasn’t even that much taller than Vimes, but he made the most of a few inches.
“I’m pleased to hear it. Prince Kufura from Klatch was particularly disappointed not to see you at the farewell gala last evening. I told him I would pass along his regards.”
“Consider them passed. Although I can’t say I’m disappointed to have missed it.” Vetinari flashed one of his lightening smiles—it seemed a little less unnerving than usual.
“No, I can’t say that you should be.” Vetinari moved toward the side of the bed as Sybil busied herself collecting the various bottles and tonics that were Vimes’ daily regiment of suffering.
The Patrician languidly made his way over to a chair at Vimes’ right, slipping onto the slightly worn upholstery like a very self-possessed cat. Just then, Willikins, the butler, entered the room, stopping in the doorway to give a little perfunctory tap at the frame.
“Yes?” Sybil turned around at the sound.
“Pardon me, my Lady but it is past young Sam’s feeding time and I’m afraid he’s ever so aware of timetables.”
“Oh dear is it time already? Oh Wilikins you didn’t leave him with Cissy again did you?” The butler blanched ever so slightly.
“Ma’am…?”
“Oh but the poor girl does get so flustered when he cries, the poor thing.” Sybil put down whatever vile potion she was collecting and turned to Vimes. “Don’t you move one inch, Sam Vimes, I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him for you, your Grace.” Vetinari gave Lady Sybil a soft smile, his mouth turning up just ever so slightly as she flashed one of her big, toothy ones at him. The door shut with a click after her, and Vimes listened to her steps fade down the hallway towards the nursery.
The two men sat in silence for a minute. Vimes didn’t quite have the courage to open up the Times again with Vetinari sitting right there—but ye gods, he couldn’t actually be expected to make small talk with the man on his own, could he? Vetinari leaned back in the threadbare chair, stretching his long legs in front of him and resting his head on his hand, long fingers pressed against his temple. He stared at Vimes, his expression inscrutable. Vimes stubbornly squashed the instinct to fidget, instead slowly folding the Times back up and placing it on the bedside table. Despite his best efforts, he twitched a bit as his stiches protested the movement.
“I had thought, at this point Commander, that you might forego patrol in favor of the more—administrative—tasks set forth by the Watch.” Vimes stared ahead, setting his jaw in the usual rigid line he preferred when talking to the Patrician.
“We were short staffed with all the convention business sir. Regular patrols are still one of the most effective ways to keep a handle on things, sir.” The second ‘sir’ came out almost like a reprimand.
“Of course, of course. You know the best way to run your own Watch house-- of that I am completely sure.” Vetinari shifted again, settling further into his seat like a coiled snake. “I suppose I can’t really reprimand you for rigidity of character—regardless of the absurd or inane action it drives you to.” Vimes looked at the Patrician-- that was possibly the most straightforward insult he’d ever received from the man. Vetinari’s face was still a mask of cool collectivity, but his eyes were piercing under his finely sculpted eyebrows.
Out the window behind the two men there was a muffled boom, and a large black cloud of smoke rose from the dragon pens. Vimes watched the cloud billow out over the courtyard and listened to the muffled voices calling out below. Vetinari glanced lazily out the window at the commotion. “Hmm, it seems Lady Sybil will be a bit delayed.” He relaxed back into his chair, his gaze flicking back to Vimes.
“Yeah that sounded like a bad one.” Vimes glanced absently from the window to the tray Sybil had left next to him. He shifted experimentally. His wound was feeling much better than it had yesterday. Vimes pushed himself up in a few small increments so that he wasn’t leaning against the pillows anymore. His side sent a couple of cringe-worthy twinges as reprimand, but he gritted his teeth and managed to lean forward without disgracing himself too badly. Vetinari watched him perform the entire routine passively, raising his eyebrows only slightly as Vimes reached for the small silver scissors lying on Sybil’s tray. Vimes took a deep breath—or as deep as his knife wound would let him anyway. “I’m sure Sybil will be happy to meet you back in the Slightly Pink Drawing Room, sir.” Vetinari continued to stare at him, looking a little bemused. The silenced stretched on just long enough to be uncomfortable.
“You don’t want to detain me, I suppose.” Vimes went rigid with the effort not to turn toward the man and stare.
“No… I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do...” Vimes was plunging unknown waters here-- and some part of him felt that making him deal with this strangeness while confined to bed with a gaping knife wound was some sort of cosmic betrayal.
“Mmm yes. Although I’m sure you’ll appreciate that ‘having things to do’ as you put it, is a basic mode of existence for me.” Vetinari let his hand drop to the armrest of the chair and his head rest lightly on the poorly stuffed backing. “As it is, my only really pressing appointment is with the head of the Assassin’s Guild—“ Vetinari crossed his long legs smoothly. “But I’m sure Lord Downey will understand that I felt compelled to check in on our intrepid Commander of the Watch.” Vimes had the distinct, and irritating impression that the Patrician was trying to make some sort of point by lounging around in his armchair and offering pointed witticisms—so Vimes opted to rely on the old standby. He gave Vetinari a curt nod.
“Sir.” He then proceeded to put the other man and his maddening insinuations firmly out of his mind to focus on the task at hand. Vimes took the delicate scissors roughly, pulling a handful of gauze wrapping away from his chest and proceeding to try and hack through the whole handful. This method was less than successful, the scissors were small, and awkward in his large hands, and every pull at the layers of wrapping made him grind his teeth in pain. Finally he managed to free one strand and started to try and unwind it from his midriff. He pulled it off the front easily, but when he started to try and disengage it from his back he leaned forward without thinking and the resulting spasm of pain made him grunt and jerk back involuntarily. Suddenly there was a hand around his wrist, holding it immobile, gauze hanging from his fingers in a sad string.
“What are you doing.” It wasn’t a question so much as an incredulous statement. Vimes looked up at the Patrician, the rest of him still frozen from the pain and the shock of the long fingered hand holding his arm. He didn’t reply, just started up at the other man blankly. Vetinari stared back, unblinking.
“Apparently my Doctor recommends I change my bandages twice a day. Sir.” Vetinari blinked quickly, absorbing this information, his hand still holding Vimes wrist steady.
“You are going to try and change your own bandages. “Vetinari spoke slowly. “In a house full of servants and a doting wife.” He still didn’t let go of Vimes’ wrist. Vimes glared up at him, not quite daring to pull his hand away from those cool fingers but angry enough to resent being stared down at.
“I’ve been stabbed before you know, I know how to change a bandage. Sir.” The ‘sir’ was flung out a little more vehemently and acidly than usual. Vetinari continued to stare at him, narrowing his eyes as he searched the other man’s face for something. He must have found something unusual because he laughed. It was a quiet laugh, only one breath, but it was still a laugh. Vimes was so shocked that he barely noticed when his wrist was released as Vetinari pulled back.
“I do, appreciate you coming by-- sir.” His tone was a bit clipped and stilted as he tried to recover. He dropped the handful of gauze into his lap. “But if you wouldn’t mind—“ He stopped short as he realized Vetinari had only pulled back enough to allow himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Suddenly he was at eye level and much too close for comfort. Vimes pulled back instinctively, his side protesting, but not enough to halt his movement. Vetinari calmly picked up the discarded length of gauze, examining it casually, and disentangling it from the other slightly hacked pieces on Vimes’ chest.
“You will tear out your stiches if you move suddenly like that again, Vimes.” Vetinari moved smoothly to pull the length of gauze around Vimes’ back, working it delicately off of his wound with steady hands. Vimes was frozen in place as the other man peeled ragged cotton off of him. His brain was still muddling through the situation as Vetinari ordered him to raise his arms.“Lean forward slowly, Commander.” Vimes’ body moved on it’s own. “Put your arm on my shoulder, I ‘d rather not have you waving it about.” Vimes felt rather detached from himself as he saw his arm sitting lightly on the dark shoulder.
The Patrician very carefully and deliberately unwound lengths of gauze from his torso. His nimble fingers plucked the thin fabric expertly from Vimes’ tender ribs.
“You are a singular man, Vimes.” Vetinari said after a while. He was focused on his task, his words were softer than usual, they sounded contemplative, with none of his usual hard edges. “In anyone else this behavior would be almost pathologically ridiculous. But somehow with you I find it all rather… amusing.” Vimes was still staring unabashedly at Vetinari as he continued to remove layers of gauze. “It’s admirable in it’s own way—I’m constantly re-impressed by your strength of character.” He paused in his wrapping for a moment, seeming to reconsider what he had just said. “Well that, and your immovable insistence on clinging to a moral code that really has no basis in reality.” Vimes wasn’t sure if he was being chastised or praised—and he wasn’t certain which one of those options was more terrifying. His brain still hadn’t come up with a proper response to the situation, so he opted to continue staring. “ I doubt the city would be functioning the way it is without you actually.” Vimes was at a loss. This situation was leaps and bounds beyond what he knew how to cope with, so he just held perfectly still and let the entire episode wash over him.
The Patrician sounded amused. “Oh I know I would have got it into shape eventually—but having you to work with has certainly made it more… interesting.” He stopped moving for a moment and looked contemplative. “I never would have thought to find someone who would match me in willpower.” He peeled the last layer of binding gauze away with the barest of pressure. “Least of all you, if you’ll forgive my bluntness.” Vetinari leaned down and pulled away the cotton pad covering Vimes’ stitches. Vimes couldn’t help but flinch as the wound was exposed to the open air again. But the pain did bring him back into the situation, and even more so it made him irritable enough to let the consequences be dammed.
“If you’re such a big admirer of mine, why is it you spend half of your time playing games with me and my Watch?” Vetinari met his eyes with a cool stare. At this point Vimes was starting to get past caring. “I’m certainly glad you find me ‘amusing’-- I wouldn’t want you to have manipulate someone boring.” The words came out a bit more bitterly than Vimes had intended.
Vetinari reached over to Sybil’s tray and brought over the water bowl carefully. The water was still warm and smelled faintly of herbs. The Patrician rolled up his sleeves smoothly before dipping a washcloth into the scented water. The first contact of the cloth with his side made Vimes suck in his breath and stiffen against the pain, his hand clamping around the thin shoulder of the other man. Vetinari didn’t so much as flinch at the sudden increase in pressure—he barely even blinked. Vimes relaxed as Vetinari worked, the pain fading from a sharp stab to a dull ache.
“Well I wouldn’t say half my time. I do have the whole city to think about, you know.” Vimes glared at him, nonplussed.
“Once in a while you could just tell me what you need me to do. I’ve found a direct approach is generally effective.”Vetinari smiled again, a genuine smile, if a little devilish.
“My dear Commander, no one would ever do what I needed if I just told them. It’s the first rule of politics.” Vetinari finished cleaning the wound and picked up a fresh roll of gauze. “And potentially the first rule of humanity itself, now that I think of it.” He began to wind the gauze again. Layering each length perfectly against the previous one.
“And how would you know if you’ve never bloody tried.” Vimes muttered the rebuke before he could think about it. He was far beyond caring about consequences now. This man was frustration incarnate, and his head was starting to throb. “And I wonder how I still don’t trust you after all these years.” He said it more to himself than to the Patrician, rubbing his temple with his left hand. Vetinari paused.
“Well, to be fair, I have considered having you inhumed on more than one occasion.” He met Vimes’ gaze. “Not recently, of course.”
He continued his ministrations in silence for a while. “Trust is overrated, I don’t require it.” Vetinari plucked another roll of gauze from the pile and continued winding. “Although I do trust you.” Vimes shook his head as if to restart his brain. Vetinari glanced up at him as he wavered in confusion. “Most completely. You’ve proven your character 100 times over—I trust you to be true to it entirely.” He finished his concise wrapping and tied off the ends of the bandage smartly. “Until, of course, a luckier blade than this hits its mark.” Vimes sighed and shook his head. He was too damned tired for this—and he’d already been stabbed, he didn’t need to deal with any more pointed commentary.
The door to the bedroom clicked open as Sybil swept into the room in a flurry of skirts, and the distinct burned chemical smell that so often followed a dragon disaster.
“I am so sorry my dear, that little yellow-back finally gave up the goat—and just when I thought he might make it through.” Vetinari stood up as she entered. “He set some of the little ones off in the pens at the back—they blew a fairly sizable hole in the wall this time.” She tugged at her charred rubber apron, dropping it over the back of another chair as she approached. “I shall have to speak to the carpenters about it.” She stopped as she saw them, quickly taking in the new bandage and the rolled up sleeves. She looked from one man to the other, a bemused smile slowly spreading across her face. Vetinari didn’t miss a beat.
“A shame certainly. You were so optimistic about his recovery last week.” Vimes was decidedly not meeting his wife’s gaze, and staunchly refusing to even glance in Vetinari’s direction.
“Yes I know, I usually get such good results from that charcoal treatment…” The sentence came out absently, her mind already moving on from the familiarity of her dragon pens. “You two haven’t been arguing have you?” Vimes’ face was rock solidly deadpan as he looked at her. “You’ve just had a brush with death, Sam-- I’d think you could lay off Havelock for 5 minutes.” Havelock looked amused at the implication that having Vimes lay into him was some sort of great inconvenience.
“Oh don’t worry, my dear Sybil. Your husband was just reminding me that his steadfast refusal to listen to reason when it comes to preserving his own skin is indeed an inherent trait, not one invited by a recent blow to the head.” He was wiping off his long fingered hands on a fresh towel with careful precision. “So it seems the good Commander hasn’t sustained any permanent damage.”
Sybil chuckled. She had a good chuckle, it was deep and genuine. Not many people can pull of a chuckle—a guffaw or a giggle certainly, but a good chuckle was hard to come by, even among experts.
“Well that’s a relief then.” Sybil collected the tray of old bandages and deposited it on the far table.
“Yeah, wouldn’t be a full recovery if I forgot that trust is for the weak and most of my job involves being thick enough to be useful.” Vimes’ side was still throbbing, although at this point most of the pain had moved upward into his head. Sybil and Vetinari looked at him in silence as he rubbed his temples. Vetinari carefully laid the towel aside and slowly began to roll his sleeves back down.
“I didn’t say trust is for the weak, Vimes. I said I don’t need it to perform my function.” Vetinari’s thin fingers carefully smoothed the edge of his sleeve, his eyes focused on the fabric as it slid down his arm.
“Well I’m glad you don’t want my trust-- I don’t think I’ve got any left.”
“Sam—“ Sybil reached out to her husband as he pressed a hand to his forehead. “ Here Sam take some of this—Doctor Lawn said it was one of his strongest painkillers.” She handed him something foul smelling and he downed it with a grimace.
“Ye gods strong is right.” He gulped the water she offered, only looking back at Vetinari as she went to fetch him another. The Patrician had finished adjusting his sleeves and met Vimes eyes as the other man looked up. He was standing perfectly still-- a practiced stillness that Vimes couldn’t help but envy just a little bit.
The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment, and to Vimes’ surprise it was Vetinari who broke it first, his eyes casting downwards to drift over to the window. He sighed and placed an elegant hand on the decorative carving that made up the foot of the bed board.
“I never said anything about wanting, either.” His voice was quiet and lacked its usual commanding overtone. “Simply that I don’t need it.” He looked back at Vimes. “The two are very different.” Vimes frowned. Since he’d married Sybil he’d spent more time with the Patrician than he’dve liked—his wife’s inexplicable friendship with the man meant that he was occasionally invited to family meals or other sundry events. Usually Vimes could come up with a good excuse to avoid him, but over the years it had become harder and harder to escape a sort of mutually ignored, non-work related relationship. Vimes didn’t know what it was, but after seeing the most powerful man in the city sitting in the Slightly Pink Drawing Room eating teacakes with Sybil, it was hard to think of him on quite the same terms. Especially if said terms were that he spent his life staring out over the city from a high backed chair, face obscured by a narratively satisfying cast shadow, rhythmically tapping his fingers together in ominous repetition.
There wasn’t anything particularly ominous about the dark figure at the foot of the bed. Unsettling maybe, imposing certainly—but right now he just looked like a well-groomed man in a black vest. It was very, very unnerving.
Vetinari straightened suddenly, the relaxed grace replaced instantaneously by controlled tension as he clasped his arms behind his back.
“Do rest up Commander; I believe I am justified in saying that the city anxiously awaits your recovery, although none more so than Captain Carrot-- you do delight in terrorizing that man-- anyway, I won't detain you any longer.” He stepped neatly over to where Sybil was perched on the other side of the bed. She stood to meet him and he took her hand. “Sybil, would you like to change our afternoon tea plans for next week in light of your husband's unfortunate run in with the business end of a sharp stick, or shall I come by at the usual time?”
“The usual time will be fine Havelock— If I were a betting woman I would put money down on the probability that Sam will be back at the Watch house by then anyway.” She sent her husband a sidelong glance—daring him to contradict her.
“I’m right here you know.” He grumbled. Sybil gave him a fond smile and Vetinari shook his head slightly.
“Very well my dear, until next week then.” He bent down and placed a light kiss on the back of her hand. Nodding to Vimes he slipped out of the room on silent feet. The door didn’t even click behind him. Vimes found himself exhaling deeply as the door closed—his body had been standing at attention even halfway buried in a comforter.
They called him Vetinari’s terrier. Vimes did feel a bit like a dog who’d been kicked one too many times in a back alley.
“That was a bit cruel, Sam.” Sybil’s voice was quiet as she stood once more over the medicine cabinet. She was reorganizing, as she was wont to do at least 4 times a day—never let it be said that her Grace Sybil Ramkin was not entirely prepared to take care of her wounded husband. Years of military wives had written it in her genetics.
“What?” The word came out as a kind of half-choked laugh.
“You know, I think you really could be friends, if you both would stop posturing for a moment and try to see eye to eye.” She uncorked something in a green bottle and dumped something into a glass.
“Sybil, no one stands eye to eye with that man—you wouldn’t be able to spot ‘em, up there in the clouds.” Vimes decided to risk reaching back for his newspaper. His side put up a very convincing argument and Vimes was forced to take a recess.
“He certainly has an ego—but I think you him a great disservice to call him arrogant. Havelock Vetinari may be many things Sam, but he isn’t arrogant.”
“Alright, alright! I do respect the man—don’t look so shocked!” His wife’s face dissolved from an overly exaggerated mask of surprise to a wicked grin. “I realize that getting the Watch back on it’s feet would have been a lot trickier under another Patrician—maybe even impossible. And if I’m going to be really honest, it’s hard to imagine the damn city without him now.” Vimes gestured frustrated at the window, where the roofs and spires of Ankh Morpork stretched out into the distance. “Which I suppose is his whole game.” Vimes stared at the blankets covering his lap, his fists balling themselves up in the fabric and picking at the comforter. “He’s just such a—a…”Vimes faltered trying to find the right word to describe the Patrician that was still wife-friendly. “I mean how do you expect me to be friends with a man who manipulates me for his bloody job? And possibly for fun.” Vimes looked up at her defiantly.
“Oh Sam he really isn’t as bad as all that!” Sybil came back over from all of her medicines with another glass of something. “He’s the Patrician, it’s his job to manipulate! You make it sound so nasty, the way you put it.” She handed him the glass and gave him a severe look when he shrank away from it. “In the end he works just as hard as you do to keep this city on it’s feet.” Vimes grimaced as he managed to swallow the slimy green goo at the bottom of the cup.
“Yeah—“ He coughed. “But I do it by walking around on those streets and cleaning them up with good old fashioned spit polish and a hearty dose of elbow grease—knees, noses, and fists get in there too on occasion.” Sybil sat on the edge of the bed and took the empty cup away from her wildly gesticulating husband. “It's not pretty and it's not bloody clockwork-- it's people, and nastiness, and mess, and I wade right into it while he stands above it all and watches the flow. He's like a man beyond men, he is-- how can you be friends with someone so far removed from their own life?” Now Vimes looked at her, his face utterly perplexed and incredulous. “I mean, what does Vetinari do? The man not the Patrician.” Vimes stared off into the distance as he tried to come up with some sort of satisfying answer. He couldn’t. “All these years and I've not even got any idea what the man puts in his tea…”
“Two sugars and a slice of lemon.”
“What?”
“His tea. That’s how he takes it.” Sybil gave her husband a little half smile as he stared at her.
“Right, well, yes, that’s not exactly my point—“ Sybil sighed and stood up again.
“I know Sam— I just wish you'd put your hackles down for one moment and maybe try to get to know him. Strange as it is, there is a man under all that Patrician he puts on.” Sybil crossed the room to retrieve her charred apron from where she’d thrown it.
“Well you could have fooled me—and he has, for years now.” Vimes shifted against the mountain of pillows that were propping him up, watching Sybil fuss with the room to try and straighten out the madness that invariably occurs in a household when there’s a new baby in residence. “I doubt if he’d like me doing that anyway. I’m fairly certain he likes to make it bloody clear just how much of a height difference there is between us—“ As Vimes shifted his hand brushed against his new bandages, he stopped, looking down at the crisp white gauze so precisely laid. “Ah…” Sybil reappeared at his side, straightening his blankets with a swift twitch of her wrists.
“I think that speaks more strongly of your own insecurities, Sam Vimes, than it does of the Patrician's.” She gave him a Look. It was a wifely look, and Sam knew it well. It was the look she gave every time he forgot that he was now a member of the aristocracy and said something nasty. “You do know you technically outrank him” Vimes stopped fussing with the edge of his bandage and stared up at his wife.
“What?”
“You’re a duke. Outside of being the Patrician Havelock is just a lord you know.” Sybil looked thoughtful as she contemplated the insignificant intricacies of formal titles.
“But that's ridiculous-- he's the one who made me a duke!”
“Yes I know it's all very complicated, but that detail still stands.” She gave him an apologetic look, as if there was anything she could do about the ins and outs of nob politics.
Vimes sighed as heavily as his punctured side would let him. “I’m never going to understand all this nob business.”
“I know dear. It's one of the things I absolutely love about you.” She kissed his cheek forcefully and pushed his hair back from his face. Vimes blushed a bit in spite of himself. As much as he was dedicated to the Watch, and copper-ing ran in his blood, these last few weeks of confinement had given him time with Sybil that they hadn’t had since their honeymoon. And even that had been cut short when there was an accidental riot over some dwarvish bread. “Now get some rest. I'll lose my bet if you're not up and about next week.” Sybil squeezed Vimes’ hand as she got up again. Smiling down at him like a small sun. Vimes smiled up at her wearily and sighed.
“Yes dear.”