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Chapter Text

Lord Vetinari was about to succeed a long line of older men out of touch with the population, and often with reality. He promised stability, and would endeavor to keep the roiling chaos of the city down to a low simmer. And it was a daunting task, but one he knew he could succeed at.

The problem was the nobles. The guild leaders. The foreign dignitaries. The visiting heroes. The higher-ups of the Disc who would see a very young man – practically still a child, they would say – and decide to make it their personal mission to make Havelock Vetinari’s every moment in the Oblong Office ten times more difficult than it needed to be.

Of course he’d already completed his course of study at the Assassins’ Guild, where life was much the same if a bit less complicated. Again, it was a challenge, but not an insurmountable one.

“I’ve been pondering the issue,” Vetinari murmured to his aunt at dinner one evening, resplendent in her purple dress.

“You have an idea?” She sipped her champagne.

“I think it would be wise to use a stand-in, just for a few years.”

She glanced up at him and studied his face for a moment. He showed no sign of fear or uncertainty. “You know the city leaders will see that as a sign of weakness.”

“Let them. I have been out of town for months now, and I never had much of a social circle before that.” He paused thoughtfully. “Travel changes people.”

“It’s a risk, Havelock.”

“Everything I do is a risk,” he pointed out. “I believe it will allow the city to run smoothly on the surface. Meanwhile, I can work behind the scenes and perhaps get some real work done. I was thinking I could take on the post of Spymaster.”

“That would allow you to keep your finger on the pulse of the city,” allowed his aunt. “And if necessary, to apply pressure.”

“Exactly. It will give me the freedom to pursue post-graduate studies at the Guild as well.”

She frowned slightly. “You’ll have to choose your stand-in very carefully.”

“I’ve done a little looking, I have someone in mind already.”

“I hope you realize this places you in even more danger,” Lady Roberta Meserole said, giving him a stern look.

“I’m aware. I can handle danger, Madam. Fighting tooth and nail for every word I say to be taken seriously would be a setback to progress.”

“Well… I shall be staying in town for a while, to help you get settled. You know you can call on me to help you.”

“Thank you,” Vetinari murmured, looking down.

“You can’t move through your whole life without being seen, Havelock.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly, glancing up at her. “But it will be useful to me for now. It will help the city.”

She took a long sip of champagne, staring at him.

“It is only temporary,” he murmured, eyes dropping again.

“I should hope so. Ankh Morpork needs a strong leader right now. Not a shadow.”

He bowed his head in acquiescence, but knew it would get both.

. . .

Havelock Vetinari had met a number of interesting people while out on the Grand Sneer. Certainly none of the people who had accompanied him were interesting, but that was why one traveled. Lady Margolotta of Uberwald, for example, proved to be a wit sharp enough to match his own. She was thrilling and dangerous, and he respected both aspects of her. Certainly an important connection to maintain. He’d briefly met the ruling werewolf family and the Low King of the Dwarfs as well, who were less interesting but also useful in their way.

Then there were the… lesser folk, as any number of his acquaintances might have referred to them. The Igor clan was fascinating, and he spent a few long afternoons discussing anatomy with them. Once, as a prank, they’d tried to swap his pinkie finger for a different one while he was reading. He didn’t feel a thing. He could have killed them of course, but it was a fascinating process to watch and it moved at his command. And then it was always a treat to see how high someone could jump when they realized he’d been aware of them the whole time.

He’d stopped briefly in Genua to rest at his aunt’s estate before heading back to Ankh Morpork, and just outside the city limits he’d met an interesting stranger. He met many strangers, but this one was a stranger to everyone. He was only a bit older than Havelock, with no name and no past. Not just no memories, for it was not unheard of to lose one’s memory after a blow to the head or a traumatic event, but no past. The young man had been born not knowing who he was, and had never learned. He’d apparently been raised by peas in the wilderness (which Vetinari had a bit of trouble understanding), wandered into town a few years back, and now drifted from one job to the next. He reminded Vetinari of a cup that hadn’t been filled, perhaps because it had a hole in the bottom.

“And you never chose a name for yourself?” Havelock asked him, handing him an eel pie.

The man shrugged. “Nothing seemed to stick, sir. I’ve heard people say they… go somewhere to find themselves. Guess I just haven’t looked the right places yet.”

“Fascinating,” Vetinari murmured, nibbling on a plain croissant. “Does it concern you?”

“A bit. Concerns everybody else more, though. Anyway, whenever somebody tries to help me know who I am… it doesn’t work. They never sound sure, so why should I be?”

Vetinari regarded the man closely and took a slow sip of water. “Have you never thought it should be the other way around? I am always very certain that no one knows who I am, which is how I am so sure of myself.”

The man tilted his head, considering. “…No. No, doesn’t seem right to me.”

“May I try something? Just a minor experiment?”

“If you want.”

Vetinari looked into the man’s eyes. “You, my friend, are a great connoisseur of candied sea creatures,” he said with absolute certainty.

The man blinked, looking taken aback. “I’ve… I’ve never had those.”

“They are difficult to come by, and quite expensive. Likely the opportunity has not arisen. Nonetheless, they are your favorite snack food.”

He watched the man closely. Something seemed to be moving behind those wide eyes. Then the man nodded.

“Yeah, I… maybe when I visit the city next I’ll see if I can afford some…”

Havelock smiled. A few weeks later on his return to Ankh Morpork, he stopped briefly to drop a package on the man’s doorstep. It contained an array of candied sea creatures from the finest markets in Genua. He stood in the shadows and watched the man open the package, exclaim with glee, and start devouring the treats.

. . .

It wasn’t uncommon to have a public swearing-in and another private one. The public affair was huge and grand, with banners and a parade and feasting. The man who addressed the city was fat with many rings on his fingers. He snacked periodically on candied sea creatures, and was generous enough to share.

Those who had seen him before agreed that Lord Vetinari seemed to finally be enjoying life. Good for him, they said. The parties he threw were sure to be worth attending. And indeed, the city’s leaders danced and ate and laughed the night away at the palace. His lordship was charming in a rather unsettling way. And he certainly had some… unique tastes, but it was nothing compared to some of the other recent rulers. If he overindulged, that was certainly his right.

“That can’t be Dog-Botherer,” Downey muttered to Cruces. “Far too old and fat.” He watched the patrician delicately eat a crystalized jellyfish.

“He did spend rather longer in Uberwald than we did,” Cruces said doubtfully. “Perhaps he… blew up like one of those fish.”

The two glanced at another bowl, which was indeed full of sugared blowfish.

“Last I saw, he was hanging around with a vampire lady. And he definitely didn’t have enough blood to satisfy her.”

“He’s got some now,” Cruces said. “Maybe instead of him getting vampired, she got… Vetinari’d.”

“Don’t be a scag,” Downey hissed, but he eyed the patrician suspiciously.

The private ceremony involved a dark room with a small number of people. Doctor Follet represented the guilds. Lady Meserole represented the nobles. Archchancellor Galder Weatherwax of Unseen University was in attendance, as was the blind archbishop of Blind Io. Mr. Slant of the Guild of Lawyers was in attendance to officiate. Vetinari stood tall and looked into their eyes in the flickering candlelight as he solemnly took the oath of office.

“I believe this is a wise decision, my lord,” Dr. Follet said, and Vetinari didn’t miss the brief hesitation before the title.

“I quite agree.” Archchancellor Weatherwax nodded firmly, pouring them all drinks. “Best to stay alive, keep an eye on things, live to fight another day, eh? Gotta keep your wits about you in times like these.”

“Eh?” mumbled the Archbishop. Weatherwax pushed a glass into his hand.

“Thank you. I know I can rely on all of you to be discreet.”

The five representatives raised their glasses to their new Patrician. Lord Vetinari’s glass rose a bit higher than the others. While they all drank deeply he touched the rim of the glass to his thin lips, still watching them. And in turn, they watched him.

. . .

“I trust your celebrations went well?”

The patrician looked up and smiled. “They were splendid. May I offer you a candied starfish? They’re delightfully crisp.”

“No thank you, my lord.” The spymaster lowered his eyes deferentially. “I only came to inform you that the core members of Lord Snapcase’s staff have been dismissed, his supporters dealt with, and I will begin the search for suitable replacements this week.”

“Yes, I’m going to need… oh, a secretary or something. A chief of staff. Maids and such, I imagine.” The patrician waved his plump hand, heavy rings clicking softly against each other as he did. “After all, you can’t do everything Mr. Blake.”

“Indeed not, my lord. And regret that I was unable to attend the festivities over the past week. Would you care to tell me about the people you have spent time with, and your impressions of them so far?”

Spymaster Blake listened as the patrician told him of his charming but distant aunt, Lady Roberta Meserole. The feuding Lords Venturi and Selachii. The pompous Lord Rust. The terrifyingly sharp Doctor Follet.

“But of course, he is nothing to you,” Blake said flippantly.

“…But I only recently graduated from his own guild,” the patrician muttered.

“And yet you always knew you were sharper, more creative, and more practical than he,” Blake said firmly, looking the larger man in the eye.

“…Of course you’re right,” the patrician said slowly.

“He will try to intimidate you,” the spymaster continued. “But he knows his place, in the end.”

“As he should.” The patrician hesitated. “There were two more assassins who looked at me quite a bit. They did not speak to me, but the taller one coughed when he came near. It sounded like he was saying ‘Dog-botherer.’”

The spymaster nodded. “Lord Downey. It was a nickname he gave you in school. A play on the name ‘Vetinari.’”

The patrician’s face twisted in fury. “I will have him thrown in the scorpion pit.”

“There is perhaps a better way to deal with Downey,” the spymaster said, careful to keep his voice firm but deferential. “He can still be useful to you. …But he should certainly be taught a lesson.”

“Indeed.” The patrician sat back. “I will see to that personally. Call him to my office.”

“As you wish, my lord,” murmured the spymaster. “I know you to be a man who sees people’s worth. And you are certainly far more intelligent than Downey.” He stepped back to disappear into the shadows.

Havelock wasn’t sure how much he could trust his false patrician. He seemed biddable, but allowing him to deal with Downey so early in the ruse seemed like a bad idea… He’d have to remain nearby to mitigate the damage. As much of a scag as Downey was, it wouldn’t do to dispose of someone who could be of use later.

Havelock dropped off some coursework directly onto Doctor Follet’s desk first, while the master assassin was asking his secretary to close the window that he suddenly noticed was open, and then dropped in on his old classmate.

Downey was pursuing post-graduate work at the Guild as well, though he was doing so in person. His professors praised him for his strength, his efforts, his tenacity, and his family name. They did not mention his keen powers of observation however, and when he looked up to see the patrician’s spymaster, a rather hunched older man in dark brown robes was all he saw. He was on his feet instantly.

“Vetinari’s spy? What do you want?”

“That’s Lord Vetinari’s spymaster, to you, whelp,” Havelock rasped in a rough voice. “Show the patrician the proper respect.”

“Why are you here?”

“His lordship wishes to have a word with you.” Havelock ducked out the window, slow enough for Downey to follow his line of movement. And because he was curious, Downey followed him.

“He’s really let himself go lately,” Downey said as they slid down the drainpipe on the side of the building.

“I suppose that’s his business,” Spymaster Blake growled. “And again, respect will get you everywhere. The lack will get you dead, boy.”

Downey, who was nearly a year older than Havelock, snarled. “Doesn’t even look like D - …Lord… Vetinari.”

“You’re learning.” Havelock grinned wildly. “You know what they say, travel changes people. …Did it change you, I wonder?”

“You know, I’m glad he wanted a word with me. I’d like to speak to him about the cheekiness of his staff,” Downey muttered as they darted between carts.

“I’m sure he’ll be interested to hear that.” The spymaster slipped through the gardens and into one of the side entrances. He led Downey across the massive throne room to where the patrician sat in his plain char at the foot of the empty throne. “Young Lord Downey to see you, your lordship.”

“Ah, Downey.”

“V- Lord… Vetinari,” Downey said, very deliberately. The patrician smiled.

“Perhaps you’d like to guess why I’ve called you here.”

“To catch up on our boyhood adventures?” Downey suggested innocently.

The patrician smiled thinly. “May I offer you a slice of pickled lionfish? The stripes are nicely preserved.”

Downey narrowed his eyes. “…No,” he finally said. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Shame.” The patrician speared a slice on a toothpick and delicately ate it. “In fact, I hoped to discuss your future aspirations.” He paused briefly, but Downey didn’t speak. “I know you have always set your sights high. How high, I will not speculate. But it occurs to me that we might benefit each other in our career trajectories… as we did not as schoolmates.”

His voice dropped as Havelock’s did when he was displeased, and a tinge of doubt entered Downey’s posture. “…I’m listening.”

“I hope you are,” the patrician growled, narrowing his eyes. “Because I am listening as well, at all times. And I do not like what I hear. I’m sure with your level of education, you can see why this might be detrimental to your progress.”

Downey stared. The patrician stared back.

“In this city, it is wise to think before you speak. We are adults, after all, and in our positions it hardly behooves us to use childish nicknames. Wouldn’t you agree, Downey?”

“…Yes,” Downey said slowly. “Yes, I would agree.” Perhaps he was capable of growth after all.

“Capital. And are there any matters I can clear up, to make this easier for you?”

Downey hesitated. “No,” he said slowly. “My lord. You… you’ve changed a bit since the last time we met.”

The patrician leaned back and smiled. “Perhaps I’ve learned to enjoy life, Downey. You should try it sometime. May I offer you a candied blowfish on your way out?”

It had been a good meeting, Havelock had to admit as he watched Downey leave.

“I suggest you keep an eye on that one, Spymaster Blake,” said the Patrician.

“I quite agree, my lord,” the spymaster murmured.

“The blowfish really are a treat.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Chapter Text

It was relatively easy to hire servants. It required checking of references and gossip networks, and mostly they just wanted a steady job. Maids, butlers, gardeners, and pages were not generally too political, though Havelock carefully weeded out a few. He found a new food taster who enjoyed seafood. The clerks, guards, and kitchen staff were interviewed a bit more carefully, though again they mostly just wanted to get on with their tasks. Although they were menial positions, there were a few candidates from the aristocratic families of Ankh. Havelock gave them a cursory glance, and even spoke to a few of them, but he found that they generally had the wrong idea about working in the palace.

“I see here that your tutors gave you top marks in penmanship,” Spymaster Blake said, looking over a gilded resume on thick cream paper.

“Of course,” drawled young Cosmo Lavish. “And in accounting as well, I think you’ll find.”

The spymaster took a closer look. “…I’m sorry, I don’t see that listed here.”

“Well, my father owns the bank.”

“Ah.”

“You’ll note that he is listed as a reference on page three.”

“I see.”

“And of course –“

The spymaster had moved on to an awkward young man in threadbare brown robes, standing up straight. “Mr. Wonse. I see here you also received top marks in your studies from… Dame Slightly of Cockbill Street.”

Cosmo didn’t try to hide his snicker. Lupine Wonse reddened a bit.

“Yes, sir.”

“You worked for the public library on Nonesuch Street before it disappeared, and then did some transcription work for Lord Rust. How did you find the Rust household?”

“They treated me fairly, sir.”

“Of course I’ve attended many events with the Rusts,” Cosmo mentioned. The spymaster did not turn around, but moved on to the next candidate. There were a few who stood out, and a few who he knew would never make the cut, but he had them all complete transcribing, note-taking, filing, and observational tests anyway before sending them away. That Mr. Wonse was a sharp young man. A bit ambitious for a clerk, but that wasn’t a deal-breaker. Certainly one who should be kept close… Cosmo Lavish lingered, and Havelock slipped quietly into the shadows and escaped through a secret door while he was still talking.

There were a number of potential pages who came in the afternoon, some with an adult to accompany them. This was not dependent on age, and while Havelock didn’t dismiss them right away, it was a strike against them. Most of them were children, or at least teenagers, though there were few spry elderly people in the crowd. He was not accustomed to dealing with children. He saw no reason to speak to them differently than he would to a rational adult, if perhaps an adult with a lesser vocabulary than his own. So no different than anyone else, really. He spoke a bit to them, watched how they conducted themselves among their peers, and judged how well they could focus on basic tasks. He had them find a dark red bean in a bowl of black ones. They raced from the throne room out to the palace gates and back. He asked them each to bring him a different book in the archive room. They had to describe in careful detail the doors to their houses.

“Um, it’s… brown.” The small boy stared at him while surreptitiously stuffing a bean into her mouth.

“Dad put a gold knocker on it that looks like a cock,” said a girl gravely.

“Indeed?” the spymaster asked.

She nodded. “All feathers on the tail, an’ he said if I find real feathers I can put them in to make it pretty.”

“I see.”

The boy at the end of the line was small and quiet, standing uncomfortably stiff and carefully linking and unlinking a few paperclips. “Our door is light wood – pine, I think. There’s a big knot up high on the left – on the outside. The handle is wood too, and the lock is iron. There used to be red paint, but we scraped it off when Mother died and Father left because Grandmother said it was bad luck.”

“And do you think it was bad luck?” asked the spymaster.

The boy shrugged. “Grandmother thinks so, she doesn’t like red. Now it has scrapes all over.”

“Where did you get those paperclips?”

The boy’s hands froze and his fingers closed around them. “They’re mine. My sister gave them to me for my birthday. Grandmother… told me not to bring them.” His eyes dropped. A few nearby children laughed.

“I see.” Havelock began walking away, and was utterly baffled when a small middle-aged woman caught him by the sleeve.

“See here, why won’t you take on my Ludmilla? Very hard worker, she is.”

“I – I’m sorry madam, I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

“You’re making one not two minutes from now, sir! I demand an explanation!”

“I assure you I have made no decision, Ms…?”

“Mrs. Cake.” The luckless Ludmilla, who was all brown fur and pink frills, shrank back behind her mother. “And I demand to know about your selection process. Don’t you think you can use that boy’s paperclips to weasel your way out of this.”

Havelock’s eyes darted over to where a bigger boy was holding the smaller one tightly and prying the paperclips from his fingers.

“Thank you so much for your time, everyone,” he said, projecting his voice to the room as he nimbly sidestepped Mrs. Cake and made his way purposefully to the two boys. The little one was biting his lip hard, caught between tears and quiet fury as he stretched to reclaim his paperclips. “I will review each application and contact all successful candidates.” He plucked the paperclips from the larger boy’s hand and turned back to the crowd.

“How many are you hiring?”

“When will we hear from you?”

“Sign said we’d be paid for our time!”

Havelock glanced at the… young man? He wore a watchman’s helmet and a very dirty lacy opera gown.

“Anyone who is hired will be paid for their time, Lance Constable Nobbs. I believe you can find your way out.”

As the crowd filed out he turned to the small boy behind him, who was clenching his fists and trembling slightly. The anger was gone, but uncertainty was plain in his face and tears still might be a possibility.

“Mr. Drumknott.”

The boy nodded. Havelock wasn’t sure if crouching down would make him less threatening or more condescending. He did not, but merely held out the paperclips in a flat palm. After a moment the boy took them, his hand soft and careful.

“If you do not guard your belongings, you will lose them.”

Drumknott nodded. “Grandmother says that too, sir,” he mumbled.

“A wise woman.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” The boy bowed and hurried out of the room, catching up with the stragglers quickly.

A bit too young for the realities of palace life, perhaps.

“Mr. Blake. A word, please?”

The spymaster turned to find Lady Mesarole in the other doorway, resplendent in purple. He bowed his head and went to her. The two made their way down a few corridors and into the walls, finally sitting in a little nook adjacent to an empty parlor.

“Report.”

He straightened up automatically. “I am in the process of hiring staff, Madam. Everything is coming together neatly, and the patrician is settling into his role admirably.”

“Yes, he certainly seems very… confident,” she muttered. “Is he magic-touched somehow?”

“Perhaps. In any case, he is a tool to be used with the utmost care.”

“And you are sure he will not try to use his position against you?”

“He has no reason to. He believes in his heart that he is Lord Havelock Vetinari, and that I am his loyal and trusted servant.”

Madam sighed. “…I still don’t like this arrangement.”

“It has its risks, I admit. But for now, it is working.”

“Have you thought about your transition to the seat of power when the time comes? Are you going to make him lose weight and drop the rings and the penchant for strange snacks? Do you have an explanation ready?”

“The strain of office could take a great deal of weight off of anyone.”

“Traditionally that’s been done in the form of their head,” she said sharply. “Or at least a great deal of blood. You should be in the seat of power. This isn’t wise, Havelock.”

“It is, actually,” he said coolly, glancing at a spider sitting perfectly still on its web. “And I certainly don’t spend my days hiding in the shadows. I have been out in the city and in the palace since I arrived.”

“Only in the physical sense.” She frowned. “What can I do to help?”

“I have things in hand,” the young man assured her. “If you help keep the nobles and the guilds content, that would be a great favor to me.”

Aunt Roberta sighed. “Of course. But I worked hard for this, Havelock. For you. Don’t let me die without seeing you ruling the city yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” he said gently, and then smirked darkly. “I have never seen any evidence that you were capable of death.”

She jabbed him in the thin chest with a finely manicured fingernail. “Don’t speak to your aunt that way.”

“Just as you say, Madam.”

. . .

Lupine Wonse joined the palace’s team of clerks the following week, along with a few others. Havelock saw his eyes gleam as he walked into the palace on the first day. Oh yes, definitely one to watch…

The new pages started on the same day. The patrician had received an angry letter from Mrs. Cake the day before about the unfair hiring process. And it was unfair, the spymaster had to agree. Terribly unfair to Ludmilla that her mother was Like That. Young Mr. Drumknott was not extended an offer either, though Havelock hoped he would try again in a year or so.

Time passed, and of course he would take up the mantle at some point, but… the position of spymaster was one that Havelock felt suited him particularly well. He could move freely, cultivate and expand his network of spies in the city and abroad, and experiment with pulling and pushing strings here and there. The patrician threw his raucous parties fairly regularly, and was… if not well-liked, then begrudgingly tolerated. Feared, even. He did have a decent presence that filled a room as well as he could fill a chair. He gladly threw people in the dungeons or strung them up on the city walls with a bit more enthusiasm than Havelock had intended, but a ruthless tyrant would go a long way towards ensuring the city’s compliance.

The patrician was like a mirror in a way, albeit one that was curved in the middle. Practice, one could say. And Havelock was pleased, if not completely satisfied. It was delicate work, molding a person to be himself. If it was wrong of him, it seemed at least not to harm the other man.

Perhaps the discord stemmed from the few differences between them. The social aspect was one of the few things Havelock had put in place in direct opposition to his own tastes. Let the man enjoy his parties and events. Havelock certainly wouldn’t, though he didn’t mind slipping around the room, offering refreshments, taking glasses, wiping up spills, and always listening…

The arrival of the albatross was something of a surprise. The visitor from the Counterweight Continent seemed dangerously ignorant of the city, and had for some reason attached himself firmly to… quite possibly the most incompetent wizard who ever lived. The spymaster shared the news with the patrician.

“He must be important in his homeland,” muttered the larger man.

“A clerk, I believe,” Spymaster Blake replied. “But the emperor is quite concerned with his survival.”

“Hm. And he has a wizard acting as his guide, you say?”

“Rincewind is a wizard on a mere technicality. His true strength is languages.”

“Well I studied languages myself,” the patrician muttered, and he really thought he had. Havelock hadn’t bothered to impress the actual knowledge of these languages into him, as it would take far too long. “I should meet with this… tourist.”

“He seems almost too guileless to have a conversation with. I recommend that you summon Rincewind instead, my lord. He is driven by greed and fear.”

“And we can use those, yes.” The patrician stroked his chins.

“Our relationship with the Agatean Empire is… nebulous,” the spymaster continued. “But we know they are incredibly powerful.”

“Wouldn’t do to anger them. …Well then, summon him here. My guards are at your disposal.”

“At once, your lordship…”

. . .

The wizard, or wizzard as the case may be, wasn’t focusing nearly enough on the patrician, Spymaster Blake thought from a shadowy corner. Or on the big picture. Gold certainly interested him, but mostly he looked about to run at the slightest opportunity. Greed or fear, which would win out? …Fear, it seemed was stronger. Good. It was a much more effective way of controlling people than paying them large sums of money…

As the patrician and his spymaster watched the city burn from the palace windows later, Havelock reflected that perhaps he could have spent a bit more time weighing the emperor’s disfavor against his subject’s hurricane path through the city. At least he and Rincewind had left town.

“Well, he’s no longer our problem,” said the patrician.

“No,” agreed the spymaster slowly. “But the extinguishing and rebuilding process is.”

“I shall decree the founding of a Firefighters’ Guild.”

Spymaster Blake bit his lip and remained silent. He could see a number of problems with this, but perhaps in this case it would be best to let the patrician make his own mistakes. At least once or twice. “Just as you say, my lord.”

. . .

By the time the annual Assassins’ Ball rolled around, arson had increased in the city by 240% and the patrician had abolished his Guild of Firefighters. He strolled into the Great Hall wearing fine black silk, and took a flute of champagne before beginning to make his rounds of the room. His guards followed at a calculated distance. The spymaster slipped through the guildmaster’s office window. Doctor Follet had fallen the previous month and the Guild was draped in white, in mourning. It had been a bit of a shock (for Follet, certainly). His hairpiece was already preserved in the museum downstairs. Zlorf Flannelfoot didn’t have his style, but of course his methods had their merits. He did not know about Havelock. He did know that Lord Vetinari was completing a post-graduate program. When asked, the patrician merely smiled and deigned not to discuss it in detail.

Havelock dropped his coursework in the master assassin’s tray and made his way silently downstairs. He stepped out in the kitchens and strolled around through the bustling cooks and the students acting as waiters for the night.

“You can’t be in here, who do you think you are?” a sharp voice demanded. Havelock turned slowly to face a teenager in a white apron over his traditional black. A gaggle of younger boys was clustered behind him.

“Mr. Chidder, I believe?”

“That’s me. Who are you?”

Havelock waved his hand dismissively. “The patrician sends his regards to your father. His business is certainly thriving… at the moment.”

Another boy leaned up and whispered urgently in Chidder’s ear, and the boy paled.

“Apologies, sir.”

Spymaster Blake’s eyes roved the small crowd. “I trust there are no contracts tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“And of course, you will all have learned the consequences of an uncontracted death…”

A few of them gulped. Blake pointed to a small boy with thin dark hair and worn clothes.

“I’ve placed the patrician’s personal snack tray in the icebox. You’ll find he’ll be quite grateful for it if he tires of your offerings.”

“Mmm mhm, yes sir,” the boy mumbled.

“Excellent.” The spymaster turned, took three steps, and vanished into the shadows.

The students looked at each other. After a moment Chidder went to investigate, but the spymaster was gone.

“Who was that?” whispered a young boy.

“That was Lord Vetinari’s Spymaster,” Chidder muttered. “A nasty character. …Seemed to like you, Skimmer.”

“Mmm mm.”

“Shut up and let’s get those tidbits upstairs.”

In fact Havelock had always thought the scholarship assassins were far superior to those who came from good families. Of course his own name and family wealth had landed him a place automatically, but that didn’t mean he felt he could rest on his laurels. The scholarship boys worked harder, generally, and ended up better assassins. But he really had no feelings one way or the other for any of the current students, except that perhaps they would be useful in time. He watched the patrician move around the room, avoiding the many other watchers in the room.

The man had been close to his age to begin with. Igor had done a good job making little adjustments to his nose, hair, and eyes to make him look believable. The weight had been the man’s own choice, and it did require a bit of explanation but it also meant he made a certain impression on people that a thinner man would not. If his subjects saw the patrician as greedy, gluttonous, and physically slower, all the better. These were all true, but he certainly was not mentally slow. Vetinari had told him that he was not, and so it was true. He was quiet a masterpiece.

Chapter Text

“The patrician wants the Krull report on his desk before ten,” the spymaster said as he breezed through the room full of clerks. “See to it, Wonse.”

“Right away, sir,” Wonse said, and bent over his task. He was certainly efficient, and it hadn’t escaped Havelock’s attention how he had begun to favor certain clerks and scorn others. And this was perfectly normal, except that he was not making friends but gathering supporters. Certainly a man to watch…

Hopefully the news from Krull would shed some light on the red star. It was difficult to see during the day, but it was gradually growing brighter. The wizards had been consulted, but all the archchancellor would say was that they were ‘looking into it.’ Spymaster Blake suggested they look harder. He held a healthy respect for Archchancellor Weatherwax. The man wielded his considerable power gracefully, considering the fact that every wizard under him was trying to murder him and each other quietly (or not so quietly sometimes). He seemed moderately intelligent and managed to keep his head in sticky situations, which was probably why he managed to keep his head at all.

The number of red stars painted on doors was growing distressing. Normally his family motto would suggest letting the populace get these things out of their system so they could all move on with life, but the energy in the streets suggested that this might not be one of those times. Havelock quietly let himself into the Watch house and waited patiently for Sergeant Dickens to shut the door of his office, sigh, and sit down to pour himself a drink.

“Sergeant.”

The man jumped and spilled his drink, then glared at the spymaster. “What?”

“Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but the level of panic in the streets is rising by the day.”

“Astrology’s the job of the bloody wizards, not the Watch.”

“Indeed, but while they work towards a solution the general public is beginning to move in the direction of a riot. I don’t think I need to tell you how disastrous this would be, if directed towards the university.”

“Look, my men are doing their best! What does Vetinari expect from me!?”

“The Patrician expects you to keep the peace, Sergeant,” Havelock said in a low voice. “Do let me know if you find yourself unable to carry out your duty.”

“I don’t even have ten men anymore!” Dickens complained. “They keep leaving. Fred and Nobby were just talking about going off to join the regiments!”

“Perhaps you should do some recruiting, then. Do you have anyone in line for promotion?”

The sergeant sighed and rubbed his face. “…Vimes’s got a good head on his shoulders if he can keep it outta the bottle.”

The image of a young man about his own age, fighting off attackers back to back with Sergeant Keel on the 25th of May not so long ago, floated through Havelock’s mind.

“I’m sure you’ll do what you see fit, Sergeant.” He stepped back into the shadows. “I do hope it’s enough.”

“Damn Vetinari and his damn spies…”

. . .

Spymaster Blake strolled down to the docks to pick up news from the arriving ships. His spy network was growing, but he found that some fresh air did him good. The fewer mouths the gossip passed through, the better. He walked along through the crowds with his head up and a long stride, entirely in the sunlight. It marked him as someone who knew his business and was intent on doing it, and thus no one stopped him and hardly anyone looked at him. Once at the docks, he bought a cup of rather sour lemonade and leaned casually on a post like any number of other men. News passed back and forth around him, and he carefully filed it all away. He also noticed a disturbing number of people with red marks on their foreheads.

After a while he noticed a small boy slipping through the crowd into the customs house. He came out a few minutes later carrying a large package. It looked heavy, and he didn’t seem very strong but he carried it carefully. Havelock watched as he dodged around careless or planned kicks, keeping his eyes low. When he had fought his way clear of the crowd he set it down to rest, though he kept a hand on it. Havelock straightened up and strolled over to him. The boy looked up as the spymaster approached, and his eyes showed a flicker of recognition.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake.”

“Good morning, Mr. Drumknott. Running errands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you often carry such heavy loads?”

“No, sir. Grandmother had a parcel from Howondaland.”

“I see. How are you faring with the… star?”

“Grandmother says it’s just people being silly. …But she painted a star on the door.”

“A red star? Dear me, she must be taking it seriously, then.”

Rufus Drumknott nodded gravely. “You remember she doesn’t like red.”

“I do remember that.” The spymaster looked around. “How old are you?”

“Nine years old, sir.”

“Really.” He looked about six, but he didn’t appear to be lying. “And you spend a lot of time walking around the docks on your own?”

“Sometimes, sir. I know where to go, and I know how to be quiet and not be seen.”

Havelock smiled slightly. “So I see. I wonder, could you tell me what the sign just over the counter in the customs office said?”

Drumknott hesitated. “…Left: Pick-up, Right: Drop-off. Please have your paperwork ready when you reach the front of the cue.” He paused and frowned. “…They spelled queue wrong.”

“Indeed they did.”

“I told them that one time and they said they’d give me a thump around the ear if I didn’t get out.”

“Dear me. What did you do about that?”

“I got out, sir.” The boy hesitated. “I’m… not tall enough to reach so I can’t fix it. But I told them, at least.”

“Do you go to school, Mr. Drumknott?”

“When Grandmother can find a penny, sir. Not today.”

“Were you disappointed when you were not offered a position at the palace?”

The boy looked down. “…A bit, sir. But I can try again, like you said.”

“I wonder if you might do a small job for me in the meantime.” Blake fished an old, dull penny out of his pocket. “You have an eye for detail and a sharp memory. I would like you to… notice things.”

“What kinds of things, sir?” The boy was looking at his face, not at the penny.

“People. What they say, how they act, what they do. People can be unpredictable, but they generally move in patterns. I am especially interested in any changes to those patterns.”

The boy nodded emphatically. “I can look for that! I know patterns.”

Havelock handed him the penny. “I may see you weekly, or every few days, or even once in a month. I will give you a penny for what you tell me.”

“Thank you, sir. I can notice things for you.”

“Excellent. And I will inform you when we are hiring pages again.”

. . .

The problem with a city like Ankh Morpork was that when things went bad, each little faction started pulling in a different direction. Lord Winder would have appreciated that kind of thing, Havelock thought to himself sourly as he stood behind the patrician in a council meeting. He enjoyed watching people getting pulled apart.

“The Watch has been told to take control of the streets,” the patrician said icily.

“The Watch couldn’t find their bottoms with both hands,” Lord Rust said haughtily. “We need more force.”

“The gods have provided no answers,” muttered the archbishop of Blind Io.

“We need the wizards to do their damn job,” rasped Zlorf Flannelfoot, glaring at the archchancellor.

“I tell you, it isn’t magical!” snapped Weatherwax. “It’s a natural phenomenon!”

“Well who do you plan to blame for that?” growled Lord Venturi.

“This is not a matter of placing blame,” the patrician said icily, and the others all glared at him. “There is no prevention here, unless the wizards or the priests can manage to take control of the situation.” He shot a dark glance at Archchancellor Weatherwax, who returned it with equal ichor. The archbishop of Blind Io was looking in the other direction. “In the meantime, we need to control the people. Raise the regiments. Ready the assassins if necessary. This is a panic, nothing more. We have survived worse.”

“Not all of us have,” murmured Lady Meserole, glancing around the table. It seemed every few years the faces changed. Her eyes lingered on the patrician and his spymaster briefly.

Havelock didn’t like the idea of regiments in the streets, and certainly not the assassins. It was too much like that May not long ago. Things were getting out of hand. He could keep all the balls in the air, he just needed to make some adjustments…

. . .

“May we have a word with you, Lady Meserole?”

She turned to the two young men with a dazzling smile on her way out of the palace. “Messers Downey and Cruces! What an unexpected pleasure!”

They both straightened up unconsciously.

“We just hoped to ask…” Downey began.

“It’s a bit of a delicate question,” Cruces interrupted. He was the more tactful of the two.

“Oh dear.” Her hand fluttered at her neck.

“No, er –“ Downey was flustered already. “I – that is, we were wondering… if you and the patrician are… close, your ladyship.”

“I should say so! Since the day he was born. We are very close.” She laughed delicately. “My favorite nephew.”

“And… is he in good health?” asked Cruces.

“Well I’ll admit that his eating habits are not the best, I do give him trouble about that sometimes. But he keeps himself well.”

The two young men looked at each other.

“Do you know the spymaster very well, my lady?” asked Downey cautiously.

“Oh, we’ve spoken a time or two.” She waved her hand airily.

“Is he… trustworthy?”

“He is a bit… unpolished, perhaps. I cannot say I agree with him on every matter. But I believe he has the Patrician’s best interests at heart, and indeed, the city’s.” She smiled graciously. “Now, it’s been so good to talk with you both but I must go. Goodnight, gentlemen.” She swirled into her coach in a whirlwind of purple silk and was clattering off down the street before they could respond.

Havelock always seemed to have everything under control. She didn’t want him to have to find out the hard way that he might not.

. . .

Lupine Wonse didn’t keep in touch with his old friends from Cockbill Street, Spymaster Blake noted as he moved across the roofs. And only barely with his mother. The friends – or more accurately, connections – he was making in the palace were mostly higher-class, better-educated clerks. He did seem to have some acquaintances on the Morpork side of the river who he met with now and then, but again, those were connections he did not treat as equals. He was certainly ambitious…

On his way back from following the young man to the Bucket, Havelock spotted a familiar small figure. He dropped down in an alleyway and stepped out directly in front of Rufus Drumknott. The boy immediately stood as tall as he could. There was a smear of red paint on his forehead. He looked a bit upset, but swallowed it down at the sight of the spymaster.

“Are you on an errand currently?”

“No, sir.”

“Follow me.” The man in gray turned and walked back into the alley. Soft footsteps followed him. The boy was growing on him, and when the spymaster leapt up to hang from a low second floor window and offered his hand Drumknott took it unquestioningly. He only gasped softly as he was lifted up. The building had been empty for some time, and the two stood facing each other in the dusty room.

Something had unsettled the boy. His breathing and pulse were quick, his eyes a little unfocused, and his hair slightly mussed. Still, he stood ready to report.

“What do you have to tell me about?”

“Just… the star people, sir. They think if they kill the right person, the star will go away. And if they don’t, it will kill us all. They’re… especially angry at wizards and priests and… people like that who read things.” He sniffled a little, reddening. “I – I have to keep my books and papers hidden, and I can’t go to school anymore,” Drumknott mumbled, eyes downcast. “And I’m not to… to speak to them. And Grandmother says to put red on my forehead if I have to go out.” His forehead creased. The red paint was mixing with sweat and heading for his eyebrow. Havelock offered him his handkerchief and he carefully wiped around the edges, then folded it neatly before handing it back.

“Have you or your family been threatened?”

Rufus swallowed and looked away. “I… I saw them burning a stack of books. I wanted – I tried to grab just one, just so… so I could save one, but… they saw me and I had to run away or they said they’d throw me on the fire.”

Havelock’s face didn’t betray the brief flash of fury he felt. “Thankfully you are a quick runner.”

Drumknott sniffled again. Havelock handed him a penny, which he put carefully into his pocket.

“Were you on your way home?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then I expect your grandmother will worry if you arrive late. Shall I accompany you?”

“You don’t have to, sir,” Rufus said quietly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly. I had planned to offer you a test of sorts.”

The boy was tired and shaken, but he nodded dutifully. “If you like, sir.”

“I will walk unseen. At certain points I will come out of hiding, and you will do your best to tell me where I have been. I must warn you that my powers of stealth are formidable… but your powers of observation are not insignificant.”

Rufus looked up at him, and his expression lightened a little. He nodded. The spymaster lowered him down to the street swiftly but carefully, then vanished.

As Rufus Drumknott walked home, he kept his eyes and ears open. A swish of dark fabric in the crowd, a rustle of branches above, a movement on the rooftops…

“Where was I?” Spymaster Blake asked, suddenly strolling beside him.

“…You went from the window to… over to the left behind that cart, to the tree back there, up to the roof?”

He was gone again. Even as he’d said it, Rufus knew it wasn’t right. He tried to pay closer attention.

“Where was I?” asked the spymaster, appearing on his other side after a few minutes.

“Down… the alley on the right, then through the dressmaker’s shop, and around the lady selling stew,” the boy guessed. Rufus watched closer this time as he sidestepped into a niche in a building and just… wasn’t there. He stopped, staring at the spot, then looked around. Was he already gone? Was he still there? He continued on after a few seconds.

“Where was I?” the spymaster asked once more, just before they crossed the street to Grandmother’s house.

“I… I only thought I saw something in the cab,” Drumknott said apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“As I said, this is a specialty of mine. Your observations were sharp nonetheless.” He reached into his pocket and offered something.

“Y-you already gave me a penny. I didn’t really see you at all, did I?”

“Would I be correct in assuming you are not otherwise occupied tomorrow? Or for the foreseeable future?”

“I – n-no, sir.”

Spymaster Blake touched the boy’s shoulder, just lightly, and a small piece of paper fluttered down. When Rufus looked down and fumbled to catch it, he disappeared again. The boy looked around as carefully as he could, but didn’t see any sign of the man. Then he looked at the neat handwriting on the paper.

’Rufus Drumknott will start work as a palace page beginning Grune 1 by the approval of Mr. Blake, Spymaster to the Patrician’

Chapter Text

“A word, if you please.”

Havelock looked up sharply. That tone from his aunt brooked no argument, no delay, and no excuses. “Of course, my lady.” She led him through the passages up to the airy but dusty attic chamber, away from any possible prying ears. This was doubly serious then, and he had a good idea of what it was about.

“The city is in panic, the world may be ending, and you are hiding in the shadows,” Lady Roberta Meserole hissed, whirling on him. “This is not the time for affected shyness.”

Cold fury blossomed in his chest, but he would not allow it any power over him. “We are in the throes of crisis, as you say,” he said sharply. “It must be dealt with first and foremost.”

“Your classmates are suspicious. Cruces and Downey.”

“Both fools. They know nothing.”

“They represent danger. And they are only the ones who approached me. Others are suspicious, and doubtless there are many who keep their doubts to themselves.”

“Let them doubt,” Havelock snapped. “I am dealing with it.”

She glared at him. “If you don’t move quickly, it will no longer be your problem to deal with. Put a stop to this, Havelock. We both worked too hard to lose the Patricianship now.”

“Rest assured, I will not. May I tell you my plans, or do you need to berate me further?”

He knew he’d crossed a line, so he didn’t move out of the way enough to completely avoid the slap across his face. His aunt caught him by the collar and glared at him until his eyes dropped. Then she let go and stepped back, straightening her clothing.

“I certainly hope your plans are thorough,” she muttered.

Havelock exhaled slowly and smoothed down his shirt. “I plan to begin the transition shortly. The situation has accelerated quickly, but the aftermath of the star, whatever it may be, will be the ideal time. No one is watching the patrician, they are too worried about their lives.”

“Do you plan to inhume him?”

“It is a possibility,” the young man said, glancing out the dirty window. “Not my first choice, though. Ideally I will recondition his mind, make him change his habits, and then overwrite what he knows with something else. I have experimented with small things, they are slow to take. I may need to put on a bit of weight and change my style for a while. …And then I hope to send him off to the Brown Islands.”

“I don’t like him.”

“He is no one, Madam. …If anything, he is me.”

“He is not,” she said firmly. “He has been taught to act like you. But he does what he is told and lacks your spirit. He has no true morals. He cares only for power, he holds no love for the city.”

…Perhaps that was it, Havelock realized. Not the part about morals, but the last bit. “I am not entirely pleased with his performance,” he said slowly. “He lacks vision and depth.”

“You certainly aren’t wrong about that,” Lady Meserole muttered. She sighed and looked up at her nephew again. “You know I care deeply for you, Havelock. You are my only family.”

“As you are mine,” he murmured, casting his eyes down.

“I hold you to high standards because I know you can meet and exceed them.”

“I know, Madam.”

“And I hate to see you hiding from your own life.”

“I have not been hiding,” he said carefully. “I am not skirting my responsibilities, and I am not affecting any behaviors.”

They stared each other down, eyes blazing. This time she looked away first, to brush past him to the door.

“Very well. I will trust you to handle the situation, since you clearly have everything under control. But Havelock…” She paused and turned to look at him. “Do tell me if there is anything I can do to help hold the city together.”

“I shall,” he said shortly, then bowed to her. “And as always, your assistance is appreciated.”

. . .

“Mr. Wonse.”

The clerk looked up, bright and alert as the spymaster walked up to him.

“Please cancel all orders of seafood, his lordship has suddenly developed an allergy.”

“Of course, sir,” Lupine said quickly, making a note. “I do hope it isn’t serious. Is he well?”

“Quite well. It is a mere unpleasantness.”

“Will you be looking for a new food taster as well, sir?”

“I will be looking for a clerk who knows his place if I do not find one when next we meet,” Spymaster Blake snapped as he continued through the room.

“What crawled up his arse today?” muttered another clerk.

“Nothing like what’ll crawl up yours if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” Wonse growled. “Go have a word with the kitchens.” He turned and sought out a page. There was a small boy refilling inkwells. “You! What’s your name?”

“Drumknott, sir. Rufus Drumknott.” The boy continued with the ink.

“Come here when I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, sir. Just a minute, please.” He filled one more well, jammed the cork in tight, and hurried over.

“Go get me the ordering ledger, and be quick about it!” He waited until the boy was halfway across the room. “Don’t run with that ink!”

Drumknott stopped short, clutching the bottle protectively, and looked around. He hurried over to put the ink down on a shelf.

“What are you doing? Hurry up!” The boy ran off and Wonse rolled his eyes.

. . .

“I have been eating seafood all my life, Mr. Blake,” the patrician said slowly, frowning.

“Yes, my lord,” the spymaster said patiently. “Allergies often come on suddenly. I have alerted the kitchens.”

The larger man frowned, never looking away. Something murky moved behind his eyes.

“I have the day’s reports to deliver,” Spymaster Blake continued, maintaining eye contact. “If you are ready?”

The patrician stared at him a moment longer, then waved his hand and turned to look out the window. The sky was red and the star loomed large.

“The Duke of Sto Helit continues to plot against his brother in Sto Lat. He will not make his move yet, but the astral crisis is allowing him to gain followers in the court. Numerous high-level wizards have been found dead recently…”

“The star cult?”

“I believe it to be the work of Ympir Trymon, the Archchancellor’s right-hand man.”

“Hm. And Weatherwax still lives?”

“For now, my lord.”

“Well he’d better keep his eyes open then. Sounds like Trymon has his sights set on the hat.”

“Indeed…” The spymaster glanced sidelong at the patrician. “He would not be as cooperative as Weatherwax. Pray we do not have to have dealings with him in the future.”

“One wizard is much like another.” The patrician shrugged. “The strong survive, Mr. Blake.”

“That is true, sir,” Havelock murmured, watching him. “And they are in turn overtaken by someone stronger.”

“That is simply the way of the world. Wizards in particular, I’ve found.” He waved a be-ringed hand dismissively. “Let them fight amongst themselves.”

“Of course, sir,” the spymaster said slowly. “Though… they cannot be allowed to take matters too far. They will all kill each other off.”

“I’m quite sure I said that. That would certainly make our jobs easier, wouldn’t it?”

This is what I have created, Havelock thought to himself with a sinking feeling. I made him to be just like me, and… is this what I am?

“You think so, my lord?” he asked distantly.

“Of course. It’s human nature.”

It was, Havelock thought gloomily.

“Ye gods, look at that.”

The red star cast a terrible light down upon the Disc. This was it, they would be destroyed and only the skeleton of the Great A’Tuin would remain, drifting endlessly through the void…

Ankh Morpork would be empty ruins. Or just a crater. He could picture it in his mind’s eye. Everything in him lurched. Staying still at this point would have been worse than death.

“At last these fools will get what they deserve,” the patrician muttered as Havelock nearly trembled with tension.

In the red light, he grabbed the patrician by his collar. “Look at me. This city is not yours. You know nothing of this place. You are no one here. This is my city, and you are in my chair.”

Again there was slow movement behind the man’s eyes, but it was quicker this time. Havelock couldn’t tell if it was due to his own strength of will or the red star, but for the first time since he’d come to the palace the man looked afraid. Uncertain.

“This… is my chair,” he started haltingly.

“Get up,” Havelock snapped, and he did, backing away. Vetinari advanced on him, backing him towards the windows where huge orbs had appeared in the sky. “The chair is mine. The office is mine. The palace is mine. I am Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh Morpork, and this is my city.”

Far above, eggs were hatching. New world turtles stretched their flippers and began to paddle away. The Patrician hardly noticed.

“But – but I…”

“You… are an astrologer from Krull. Regrettably you arrived too late to be of any use. You will be returning on the first boat,” Vetinari snarled.

Hesitantly, the man nodded. Vetinari glanced up at the sky for the first time, but only for an instant. “Move.” He took the man roughly by the arm and led him away. His face was washed, his head quickly shaved, and his shirt changed. Havelock threw any spare clothes that wouldn’t be identified in a bag. “You will remain here until I can deal with you.” He locked the man in his bedroom.

And he exhaled heavily.

This hadn’t been well thought-out and he wouldn’t have much time, but he raced through the passages and quickly changed his clothes, then spent a bit of time with his makeup kit and a large mirror. Moments later the Patrician was seen staggering down the stairs and falling. Lady Meserole happened to be nearby and ran to him before the servants could reach him.

“He’s taken ill,” she said shortly, helping the young man back up the stairs. “I will care for my nephew, thank you.”

“…And take care of the city for him too, in the meantime,” A clerk muttered to Wonse.

“Don’t let her hear you,” Wonse growled.

That night while the city began to rebuild and the wizards looked around to see who was still alive, the palace spymaster paid a ship’s captain to take a passenger to Krull. He stopped by the university briefly to take a look on his way back. Archchancellor Weatherwax was dead. In fact, the heads of all eight orders had been turned to stone. Lesser wizards who were now the most powerful mages on the Disc were discussing making them into a rockery. Perhaps it was just how they dealt with the horrific events they’d witnessed, Havelock thought to himself. From the outside it was rather depressing, though. He recognized Rincewind organizing wizards to start repairing everything. That, at least, was… good to see. Vetinari lingered in the shadows for a moment to watch before slipping away. He stopped briefly by the Assassins’ Guild to pick up his next assignments before returning to the palace.

Madam was waiting in the patrician’s bedroom. The bedding had been changed and her perfume overlay the smells of sugar and seafood.

“I acted hastily,” he murmured, eyes on the floor.

She stepped up and gripped his shoulders, then leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You did, and we’ll have to deal with the consequences,” she said softly. “But it had to be done.”

“If the Patrician is an invalid for a month or so, I can step out at the end without too many questions,” he murmured. “I… hope you don’t mind helping me keep up the ruse.”

She smoothed some hair back from his forehead. “Of course, Havelock. I know you try your hardest not to accept help for any reason, but I am here for you nonetheless. This will give you time to complete your studies.”

“Time to go out of my mind with boredom,” he muttered. “…Though of course, Spymaster Blake can still move about freely.”

“Your whole council agrees that he’s got his claws in just a bit too deep. It may be wise for him to fade into the shadows once you regain your health.”

“He may have other uses.” Havelock sighed and rubbed his face.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I’ve been… preoccupied.”

She smiled and patted his hand. “Get some rest, my dear. Many of your problems are fading into memory.”

“Only to make way for new problems.” But he smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Aunt Roberta.”

She stepped back and smiled warmly. “I’m proud of you, Havelock. Now get some rest.”

“Only if you do,” Havelock said, turning and raising a hand flippantly.

. . .

“He seemed like a lot more fun when he was throwing parties every other night,” murmured an undersecretary to Clerk Wonse.

“Yes, well perhaps he learned that there are more important things than dancing and ridiculous snacks when one is ruling a city,” Wonse said primly. “Boy! Where’s that paper I asked for?”

“Coming, Mr. Wonse,” Drumknott gasped, heaving a large box of paper across the room.

“My ink’s about to dry up.”

“Yes, Mr. Wonse.”

“You’re a bit hard on the pages,” the undersecretary said when the boy had left.

“It’s the only way they’ll improve. Anyway, I’ve seen that one always watching from the corners. He’s up to something.”

“You think everyone’s up to something, Wonse.”

“Well sometimes I’m right.”

Rufus hurried down to the kitchens to help fetch ingredients for lunch, then sat down for a brief bite before going out to toss the scraps on the compost heap at the back. A man stood leaning in the shadows of the palace, watching a little wirehair terrier sniff around. He seemed familiar, though Drumknott couldn’t be sure. He was wary of dogs, and gave them a wide berth. He paused on his way back, feeling that he had a responsibility here.

“Do you… work in the palace, sir?”

The man had been looking at him, but he smiled slightly now. “I do. And I see that you do as well.”

The boy frowned thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen you before,” he said quietly, and just a bit uncertainly.

“No? I haven’t been well lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” The dog ambled up to him, and he stiffened.

“This is Wuffles,” the man said quietly. “He will behave, so long as you do.”

Drumknott nodded as the little dog sniffed him, then walked away. “You… are allowed to bring your pet here?”

“He lives here with me.”

The boy looked up. Their eyes met.

“Are you… the Patrician?” he whispered.

“…Spymaster Blake mentioned that you were an observant lad,” the man said.

“I haven’t seen him lately, my lord. Has he been well?”

“Quite well. He took a position in Uberwald. Many people left after the star.”

Rufus frowned slightly. “…I’m sorry to hear that, my lord.”

“That is not a sentiment most would apply to him.”

“He was careful. And fair.”

The man pushed off from the wall and smiled just slightly. “Good day to you, young man.” The boy watched him walk back into the palace, followed by Wuffles.

Chapter Text

“Report back to me at the end of the evening,” Vetinari murmured to Lupine Wonse, who was serving as his provisional personal secretary. The other man bowed and slipped off through the crowd in the Great Hall. This would be where his talents would shine. The Wizards’ Excuse Me was an event the well to-do citizens looked forward to every year. Wizards had no balls of course, but they excelled at large gatherings with lots to eat. There was music, and after a few hours and a few more drinks certain people were inspired to dance, but it wasn’t expected. It was Havelock’s first public appearance since the red star incident, though he had been seated in the Oblong Office for considerably longer.

“Your lordship.”

He turned to face two young assassins, both looking especially stuffy in their black finery.

“Ah, Downey. Cruces. I’m told you’re both being considered for full professorship at the Guild. So good to see you rising to meet your true potential.”

“You’ve… recovered, then,” Cruces said.

“Indeed.”

“Lost a bit of weight?” Downey asked, staring at him hard.

“I was quite ill, apparently.” He flashed a brief smile that conveyed no feeling whatsoever. “I feel much better now.”

“Oh. Good to hear,” Downey said uncomfortably, then rallied. “Do you expect you’ll –“

“So good to see you, gentlemen. Excuse me.” Vetinari swept past the two of them, into the crowd. It was not difficult to weave through people here. The other guests were mainly in loose groups, and they quickly got out of his way. Being Patrician went a long way towards that, but his long, smooth stride and his sharp look made people want to step back. He headed towards a formidable figure on the other side of the room. “Sybil.”

She turned, and the more delicate women she’d been talking to slipped quickly away.

“Havelock!” She beamed and squeezed his hand. “It’s been years! All those parties I heard about, and never an invitation!”

“I know you hate such events,” he said with a twinge of guilt. She would have seen right through the false patrician.

“I always thought you did too. Change your mind, did you?”

Havelock sighed. “Certainly not. But with the office come certain responsibilities.”

“Sounds dreadful.” Her eyes twinkled and she patted his back a bit harder than was polite. “I was just telling –“ She turned to find the other ladies had gone, and turned back to him, shaking her head. “Well nevermind. I imagine you’re quite busy, but I’d love to tell you about my new breeding lines, there’s a little drake I just got in from Uberwald. He’s quite a scrappy little mite! Just the thing to jump-start those genetics! Count Florian Zindelli Alexandrescu von Uberwald. …Of course that’s his call-name, his registered name takes up nearly two pages.”

“I would be delighted to hear about him once I make my rounds of the hall.”

“Of course.” She smiled and stepped back. “Have fun then, Havelock.”

He snorted and shook his head, walking off.

The new archchancellor, Cutangle, seemed fairly competent. And entirely too full of himself, but that was every wizard. Incredibly condescending, but that was again part of being a wizard. But he appeared excited about new ideas, so he would probably need to be watched… but possibly not for very long, knowing the wizards.

Wonse seemed to be enjoying himself a bit more. He was talking with the lesser wizards and guild members, and the servants. He would be more effective if he were a bit less proud, but his technique was decent. He smiled and complained in a vague way and fetched drinks for his new friends and offered a sympathetic ear.

“Report,” Vetinari said, leaning back in his chair in the Oblong Office at the end of the night.

Wonse straightened up a bit. He was a bit worse for drink, but not nearly as much as he’d been acting towards the end of the night.

“Well sir, there are at least three plots against Archchancellor Cutangle already. I thought the number was a bit low, but the wizards are all still a bit shaken after the… you know, the star.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Iverman, Churn, and Splode.”

“Spode, I believe,” Vetinari murmured. “I will expect a more detailed report on my desk in the morning. What else from the wizards?”

“They’re all in a tizzy about some genius child who recently arrived. Nearly a sourcerer, they say. Lots of new ideas about magic, even those old windbags are sitting up and taking notice. I’ll look into it further. Let me see… there’s also a girl from up in the mountains who thought she could be a wizard. Nothing came of it, of course. Oh, I spoke with the most unpleasant old woman from the serving staff. Hadn’t been there for long, and I suspect she’ll be given the boot soon.” Lupine smirked.

“Fascinating,” Vetinari said in a deadpan voice.

The secretary cleared his throat. “Everyone was very… curious about you, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“About your… illness. I told them the events surrounding the red star had a deep impact on you. Many people are looking forward to your next party, but quite a few feel you are wasting the taxpayers’ money.” He eyed the Patrician.

“Hm.”

“Er, public opinion is… mixed, my lord. But I heard nothing that could be perceived as a threat, or even outright hostility beyond grumbling.”

“Nor did I.” Vetinari idly rubbed his fingernails with his thumbs. “Still, you never know.”

“No, sir. Er.”

“Yes?”

“There are rumors that you visit Mrs. Palm often.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. And I heard that you were trying to… ‘get under that dragon lady’s covers’ as well.” He looked aside, reddening.

“Naturally, I spoke with her twice. The only reasonable next step is marriage.”

“Just idle talk, your lordship.”

“It’s been a long night, Mr. Wonse. And it will be an early morning.”

“Sir.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No, sir. I’ll be on my way then, unless there’s anything else you require?”

Vetinari waved him away. “Not until sunup, at least.”

“Of course, my lord.” He left, stumbling a bit, and Vetinari glanced through the reports that had arrived while he was out. The king of Sto Lat and his daughter had been assassinated, clearly by the duke of Sto Helit. Oddly, though the duke was next in line for the throne, he had not immediately stepped up. There was someone else ruling. It may have been Princess Kelirehenna, although all reports agreed that she had died. The Patrician idly scratched Wuffles under the chin as he read.

“I hope you had an enjoyable night.”

He looked up to see his aunt approaching from a corner of the room with no apparent doors. “It had its uses.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“I enjoyed seeing Sybil again.”

“She would make an acceptable match for you, you know.”

Havelock sighed. “We are both perfectly content as we are, with our own separate lifestyles. She would despise being the Patrician’s wife.”

“And would you enjoy being her husband?”

He shook his head. “I much prefer being her friend. How are you?”

“I finalized the house in Pseudopolis. I expect to move within the month.”

He smiled slightly. “I hope to be able to visit once you have settled in.”

“I’ll always have a room ready for you.” She smiled fondly. “And you know you can always call on me for anything, Havelock.”

“Thank you, Madam. You know I will offer the same to you.”

She leaned down and kissed the top of his forehead. “You’ve done well.”

“And so I shall continue.”

. . .

“Sir, there is a growing rumor that you are afraid of mimes.”

“Curious.” Vetinari did not look up. “When shall I expect mime assassins to infiltrate the palace?”

“My lord, people just find it… rather odd,” Wonse said uncomfortably.

“I’m sure. And yet the presence of mimes in the city has dropped dramatically.”

“…You aren’t actually afraid of them, are you?”

Vetinari glanced up with a thin smile and said nothing. Wonse swallowed.

“I’d like a lock commissioned for one of the dungeons, Mr. Wonse. A special dungeon, for the worst criminals.”

“Yes, sir.” Wonse dutifully made a note.

“Not necessarily mimes, although…” He trailed off thoughtfully, then shrugged. “I suppose we shall see.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“That will be all, Mr. Wonse.”

“Sir.” The secretary slipped out of the room quietly. The Patrician continued working for a while until there was a soft knock at the door.

“Come.”

The door opened and shut, and a young junior clerk slipped in silently. “The wizards have chosen the next archchancellor, my lord.”

“Virrid Wazygoose?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“My condolences on the passing of your grandmother.”

Clerk Drumknott bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.” He left as silently as he had arrived.

Vetinari leaned back and stretched. The city was running smoothly. The guilds and nobles were generally content. There were no major matters that required his attention.

That would have to change soon.

. . .

It was unthinkable. Even the wizards would never dare. He could see the horror in each of their faces. And then –

Everything was large, and there was the feeling – the knowledge – that the looming creatures could swoop down upon him at any moment. He tasted the air – fear. Fear and magic and… also magic, but overpoweringly strong. Walking was different.

The small yellow lizard was scooped by a large hand into a glass jar and lifted up. It was an outrage. Wuffles whined and squirmed in his captor’s other arm. He was enormous. It was important to remember him. He was not a lizard and not food.

As long as he could see Wuffles, he could focus on the dog. And he had to, or everything slipped into the simplicity of temperature and hunger and danger. The lizard reared up against the glass and began to scrabble against it. After a moment he slowed to a steady rhythm, counting each stroke. He apparently was unable to climb the surface, and certainly would not be able to break it. Wuffles was there, and there was… was… an orangutan, a familiar one, stroking him gently.

“Ook.”

Translation was a bit too much at the moment, but it sounded… gentle. The Patrician continued to scratch and count. When the numbers had gotten quite high, a man came in. A wizard. One he had seen before, one he should know, but not as important as Wuffles. He tried to think, but this was not a good shape for that and he already had numbers and Wuffles in the forefront of his mind. He wasn’t willing to give up either of those. He continued to scratch. He had not begun immediately, but it would be good to know how high he would count before he was… something else.

Wuffles sighed and curled up next to him. The wizard patted the dog, and that was good too.

. . .

The past few days were fuzzy, and fading away gradually, which was perhaps the most troubling part of Vetinari’s brief time as a lizard. 17,893,112. That was important. He had been tired and hungry at the end, and the things he was craving made him order plain toast and a glass of water from the palace kitchens. They surely would try to accommodate any requests he made, but there would be no insects served in the palace, he was very firm on that point. But Wuffles was safe, as was the Librarian. Rincewind had vanished with the sourcerer, and that… was rather a shame.

Perhaps for the best, though.

“You’ll find detailed reports from the last few days on your desk when you are ready for them, sir,” Wonse said, watching him closely. Was he trying to taste the air? …He was not. But he had, once or twice, when he’d first changed back.

“Thank you, Wonse. I’ll see to them now.”

“I’ve set up a meeting for you with the council of nobles, they have been concerned about the state of the city.”

“I trust you handled things while I was… out?”

“Of course, sir.” Lupine swelled with pride. Vetinari began looking through his reports. “I’ve sent a message to the University, demanding an explanation and public apology. They’ll pay their taxes now, mark my words.”

Vetinari glanced up. “Do you think so?”

“Oh yes, after that stunt? They’ll have to. I’ve told the guild leaders, and they quite agree.”

The Patrician put down the report he’d been reading. “You demanded that… wizards publicly apologize? And pay taxes?” he asked slowly.

“Well yes!”

“And you told the guild leaders this would be so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vetinari folded his hands slowly. He stared at Lupine Wonse expectantly. After a moment the secretary nervously filled the silence.

“Th-they’ve been far too uppity for too long, this was just the final nail in their coffin! Things will have to change now. The guild leaders are fully in support of my actions.”

Vetinari’s eyebrow rose just a fraction.

“The – the nobles are… still divided, but you’ll have no trouble convincing them.”

The silence was thunderous.

“I wasn’t going to let the city stagnate while you were… occupied,” Wonse said defensively.

Vetinari rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I will deal with it. Schedule a meeting with the guild leaders and nobles, and a separate one with whatever leadership the university can muster, as soon as possible.”

“Ah – I have already scheduled a meeting with the wizards, this evening –“

“For me, or for yourself?” Vetinari asked coldly. He stared at Wonse until the secretary looked away, which didn’t take long.

“It… would improve municipal operations, my lord.”

Vetinari bit back a sharp retort. “See to it, Wonse, and then you may take the rest of the day off. Clearly you have been overworked.”

“My lord, I –“

“Don’t let me detain you.”

He turned and stormed out in a fit of pique. Out in the Rats Chamber, Vetinari heard him pace angrily back and forth. When supervised closely he was incredibly useful. It would be wasteful to dismiss him. At least this would give the Patrician an opportunity to sharpen his mind after the reptilian fog of the past few days.

. . .

“Thank you, Drumknott.”

The young man set a pile of reports on his desk and stepped back silently. He was another one to watch. One who could be useful, and one who Vetinari suspecting of knowing more than he should. But the Patrician had watched him like a hawk, and he hadn’t said anything. He would have to be kept close, or he would have to die. So far, his prospects looked good.

The rats and cat from behind the university had left town after their latest scam. Not, sadly, due to the efforts of the Night Watch. Captain Vimes had potential, but hadn’t managed to pull himself together enough to grasp it. The kingdom of Lancre had reappeared without any explanation… but that was witch country, and such things happened in the mountains from time to time. It wasn’t particularly concerning. The kingdom of Djelibeybi seemed to have disappeared, and Tsort and Ephebe were taking the opportunity to go to war. That was something to watch from a safe distance. And Krull’s latest astronomer seemed to be getting the hang of the job. The citizens had a lot of faith in their astronomers.

“Your organizational skills are appreciated, as ever,” the Patrician murmured.

“It’s my pleasure, my lord.”

And it was, Vetinari had seen over and over as he watched the young clerk. It was refreshing.

“Have you spoken with Mr. Wonse today?”

“No, my lord. …Miss Dipplock mentioned he would not be attending you this morning, so I volunteered to help.” He straightened up a bit.

More specifically Miss Dipplock had told him Wonse wanted to remind the Patrician how essential he was, but Vetinari wasn’t going to mention it and apparently neither was Drumknott. Based on Wonse’s treatment of the boy, this likely had more to do with politeness than loyalty.

“How thoughtful. Tell me Mr. Drumknott, how high will your aspirations reach?”

“To the top drawer of the tall filing cabinets, my lord,” Drumknott said solemnly, not meeting his gaze. “If the gods are kind.”

“Then let us pray that they smile on you.” He would make an excellent secretary in time, but it was more responsibility than even Wonse really understood, and Vetinari wouldn’t ask that of the boy. Not for a few years anyway, depending on when Wonse’s budding plot came to fruition…

And on that subject, perhaps a dark cloak would be useful. Would Lupine notice one more hooded figure in his secret brotherhood from time to time? Doubtful.

“I believe Mr. Wonse had scheduled a locksmith to fit my new dungeon with an array of locks available today. Please be sure they are installed precisely to my specifications.” He passed a paper to the clerk who took it and examined it thoughtfully.

Drumknott looked up and met his eyes after a moment. “I understand what you want… though I’m unsure why.”

“An effective ruler should be ready for any eventuality.” He smiled thinly.

The boy frowned, but nodded slowly. “Your lordship… if you need any assistance…”

“Just the locks for now, please, Drumknott.”

“As you wish, my lord.”