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Shaking the rain off his helmet, Vimes ducked inside the stately doors of the Ramkin estate. It had been a long night, and the prospect of a hot cup of cocoa in front of the fire with his wife and son was all that had seen him through it. Water pooled at his feet, dripping off his cape, and he was gratified to find Willikins already waiting for him with a towel extended.
“Thank you, Willikins. Where’s Sybil?” Vimes didn’t hear the reply as he chose that moment to scrub the towel through his hair. With it still hung over his head, he unfastened his cape and hung it up on the cape rack Sybil had had crafted for him. There had been words about him ‘dripping all over the house’ the last time he’d come home during a storm.
“Front room?” Vimes repeated, pulling the towel off his head and patting at his cheeks and arms.
“Yes, sir. Did you hear what I said about --”
But Vimes was already striding towards it, unfastening the clasps of his armour as he went.
“Sybil!” He called.
“Your Grace,” Willikins said again. “I really think you should --”
“I can handle my own armour, Willikins. Did it for years.” As if to prove the point, Vimes heaved the heavy breastplate over his head and placed it down on a little mat by the fire. He grabbed his chainmail by the shoulders and lifted it up, then bent at the waist and wriggled around until it finally slid off him. Normally this was the part where he’d take out his armour kit and carefully degrease and reoil the links to prevent rust, but Vimes found, as time went on, that he much preferred leaving his armour out for Willikins to do the fiddly bits. It was one of the few indulgences he took in his rank.
“I thought today wouldn’t end,” he sighed, striding into the front room. “Sorry I’m late, love. It was just one bloody thing after another. Is Sam down already?”
“DADDY!” Young Sam scrambled down off the couch and ran the short distance, impacting Vimes’ legs hard enough to make him grunt. On autopilot, he reached down and swung his son up into his arms. Young Sam’s eyes were magnified three fold by spectacles balanced on his tiny, snub nose which gave him the appearance of a hyperactive owl.
Vimes reached up and gently took them off his son’s face, letting them hang on a silver chain that reached the young boys waist.
“Where’d you get those?” He asked, feeling a prickle of recognition as he examined the thin, silver rimmed, frames. Sam, of course, ignored him completely.
“I got a book, Daddy,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “You write words in it.”
“Oh?” Vimes took the proffered book and turned to the cover.
MY FIRST CROSSWORD BOOK.
There was a polite cough. “Ah, Sir Samuel. Welcome home.”
The voice was like a bucket of ice thrown down his spine. Despite having walked past the couch to reach the fire, he only now noticed the thin, pale man sprawled there. His dusky, dark clothes blending so well with the flickering shadows that only the V of his throat and the shine of his cheekbones seemed to stay in focus.
In the years since Sam’s birth, he counted a handful of times when he had arrived home to find Havelock Vetinari and his wife engaged in social niceties. He’d have taken the meanest, roughest, toughest drunk from The Shades over small talk in his own home with the Patrician. Oh, it wasn’t so different than the small talk they engaged in at his office really but the worst part was knowing. Knowing. That they spoke about him behind his back and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
“Your Lordship,” he said stiffly, realising now that Willikins had at some point mentioned the word ‘Vetinari’ in his explanation of where Sybil was. “Sybil…”
“Your wife heard about the riot at the Dimwell match and so went to the Lady Sybil to see if she could render aid. She had given the night off to… Chastity?” Vetinari crooked an eyebrow.
“Purity,” Vimes said automatically, and then resisted the urge to let his eyes roll back into his head. When it came to that girl, one name was about as apt as the other.
“Purity, yes, so that she could attend the match. She was concerned for her welfare and so sent your man, Willikins, to find her. She didn’t wish for young Sam to be left alone.”
“I see,” Vimes said. He didn’t really, but asking the most powerful man in the city to babysit was exactly the kind of thing Sybil would do.
“Willikins and the young woman returned recently, but I didn’t wish to leave the house until either yourself or the Duchess had returned. I’d hate to be considered remiss in my duties.”
Sam, restless that his father’s attention wasn’t focused on him, reached up and pressed the book against his father’s cheek.
“Look Daddy,” he said. “I almost have this one done.”
“Pass it here, Sam, and let me take a look.” He took the book off his son who beamed up at him with pride. “I take it the book is yours,” Vimes said to the Patrician.
“A gift,” he said with a dismissive wave of a fine boned hand. “Despite my assertions that The Times crossword could be completed by a child, I feel it would present too much of a challenge for a six year old.”
“Did you write this?” Vimes asked, carrying his son over to a nearby chair and positioning him on a knee as he sat.
“In lieu of anything more interesting to do, like, oh, run a city?” Vetinari asked, crooking an eyebrow.
“Point taken.” The book was printed on good quality paper with clear lines and dark ink. Not a home-made job then. His son’s handwriting was shaky and sometimes strayed outside the boxes but almost every box was filled.
“Uncle Havelock helped me with some of the big words, but I filled every box in myself,” Sam said and Vimes felt a smile creeping onto his own face. Gods be good, but ‘Uncle Havelock’?
“Good work, Sam.” Vimes ruffled his son’s hair. “Need any help?”
“No Daddy.” As soon as Vimes released the book, Sam took it back and turned his full attention on it. Pencil poised, and tongue caught between his teeth, he glared down at it like it was a Shamelegger ruffian resisting arrest. His pencil seemed to be hovering over eight down.
“A small yellow bird that goes quack,” Vimes read. “Well you already have the U from ‘tutu’. The C from crab and the K from basilisk.
“I’m not doing that one, Daddy. I’m doing eight across.”
“If you woke up at the bottom of the ocean then you would be … eight letters…” Vimes read and looked up at the Patrician. He was still lounging on the couch, his boots hanging off the edge of the armrest in a manner that would get Vimes a thorough telling off from Sybil should he have dared to do it. While his conscience advocated avoiding conflict with the Patrician where he could, he was damned if the man was allowed get away with things he wasn’t in his own home.
Vimes put on his best ‘Commander Vimes’ face, flicking his gaze from the Patrician’s face to his boots then back. Again, he wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light but he was sure the man was smirking. Regardless, he certainly swung his boots back down on to the floor and sat up straight.
“Okay, finished,” Sam said, holding the book out at arms length and appraising his work. “Yes. All done.” He nodded to himself and held the book up to his father’s face for approval. Vimes scanned through it quickly. He had never been one for crosswords, though he often saw Carrot and Pessimal doing them. Seemed too much like funny business to him.
Figuring his father had had enough time to look through, Sam hopped down off his lap and returned to the Patricians side. Completely without fear, he climbed up onto the couch and seated himself beside the older man, holding up the book for appraisal. Vetinari took the crossword book off him, then retrieved his spectacles. Making a show of putting them on, though Vimes had never before seen him use them, and reading through the booklet.
The familiar vibration of the front door slamming shut, and a heavy, rubber booted tread, sent a wave of relief through Vimes. His wife was home.
It wasn’t long before Sybil bustled in, still shaking the rain from her shoulders.
“Havelock! I’m sorry I took so long, thank you for watching -- Oh hello Sam.” Sybil paused only for a moment, taking in the two men sitting across from each other in the dim light of the fire. Then, bending to place a gentle kiss on his bristly cheek, she continued her march across the room. Now that his mother was home, Young Sam forgot every other member of the room, including his book, and rushed to welcome her home.
“Let’s get you to bed, little one. It’s long past your bedtime.” There was a time when this would have elicited a furious tantrum from his son. The prospect of spending time not only with Daddy, but also with his ‘Uncle’ was enough to send him hyper for hours, but as the child opened his mouth to protest he was overtaken by a yawn. Sybil didn’t wait for him to finish, scooping him up in her large, pillowy arms and heading for the door. Vimes felt her swift retreat was less to do with their tired son and more a calculated retreat, but as Sam nuzzled into her shoulder, making some weak protestations that he wasn’t tired, he couldn’t help but smile.
Normally it was about this point Vetinari would stand up, say something socially eloquent, and leave but when Vimes looked over he was staring at the book in his hands.
“Something wrong your Lordship?” Vimes asked, watching a small crease appear between the Patrician’s eyebrows.
“Mmm. Merely unfortunate. For eight across, Sam chose… Frowning.”
“Frowning?” Vimes repeated, trying to summon up what the clue had been. “Well I guess if you woke up at the bottom of the ocean, you’d be dead but I doubt that fit.”
“No, it didn’t…” Vetinari said slowly. “And frowning does indeed fit. Its placement is - however - unfortunate.” The Patrician removed his glasses, and with a smooth movement tore the page out of the book. Vimes was about to protest when the penny dropped.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh,” the Patrician agreed. “I feel it would be in the best interests of all parties if Lady Sybil did not see this.”
“The fire,” Vimes said, nodding towards it. The Patrician stood up and strode over to the fireplace.
“A wise political move, I think,” he said, setting the grate aside and dropping the page into the flames.
“A wise parenting move,” Vimes added, hauling himself up out of the chair and coming to stand beside the taller man.
“You’d be surprised how similar the two can be.”
The two men watched as the fire consumed the last few shreds and it curled away into ash. For once it was a warm, companionable silence.
“Thanks for watching him,” Vimes said. Vetinari openly smiled.
“It was my pleasure, Sir Samuel. Should you ever require my services again, let me know in advance. I could likely whip up something a bit less prone to… accidents… than that book.”
“You and crosswords…" Vimes shook his head. "You have a problem, you know that?”
“As vices go, there are worse. For now, however, I should take my leave of you. I’m sure there will be many angry people on my doorstep come morning. Riots are fun while they last, but do result in a lot of paper work.”
“It’s hard being a father, isn’t it,” Vimes teased. “Have a good evening, your Lordship.”
“You too, your Grace”
Vimes watched him go, wondering if it was just his imagination that these evening visits had increased ever since Sam had been born. Maybe there was a tender place in the old flamingo’s heart afterall. Not that he’d ever admit it, or that Vimes would ever pry.
*
Sybil had become adept at manoeuvring her son’s semi-unconscious body into clothing. Sam had inherited a lot of things from his father. His sharp elbows and knees, his fine brown hair, and his ability to sleep anytime, any place, any position. When little Sam Vimes decided it was time to sleep. It was time to sleep.
Surrounded by fluffy animals, she lay him down gently and tucked him in. Once she was happy he was safe and cozy she lent forward and pressed a kiss against his forehead.
“Mummy,” he said sleepily, his eyes still closed. “I did the whole puzzle by myself.”
“Did you?” Sybil asked. “Aren’t you my clever little man?”
“I used the word mummy taught me.”
“What word is that, sweety?” Sybil asked, brushing her son’s hair back out of his eyes.
Young Sam told her. It was the word he had heard her use several weeks earlier when she had banged her toe on the corner of a heavy, wooden desk after being startled by Dribble.
Sybil forced a smile. “Oh baby,” she crooned. “Remember what we said?”
“It was the only word that fit!”
“Remember what we said?”
“I’m not allowed use the word,” Sam sighed.
“And what are you to do if Daddy catches you using the word?”
“Tell him I heard him using it,” Sam repeated back in a sing-song tone of voice. His eyes fluttered closed again.
“That’s a good boy. Now you go off to sleep and in the morning we’ll see if we can’t get you some more puzzles. Would you like that?”
“Yes Mummy,” Sam mumbled, then he was gone again. His face a mask of peace and his little chest rising and falling like that of a baby bird. Sometimes when Sybil looked at him, she felt her heart was about to burst. She eased the pain by leaning forward and brushing another kiss against her precious son’s forehead, while simultaneously offering up a prayer that Sam not figure out it was her, and not him, that had broadened her sons vocabulary enough to include that word… but not the word ‘duck’.