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Given that his secretary has spent the last few days in thrall to a dragon and some time before that plotting to depose him the Patrician is not particularly surprised to find that nothing has been touched on his desk since he left it. The report on the cabbage harvest and the latest news from the Counterweight Continent remain in the in-tray along with a petition from the Merchants’ Guild and a few letters that need a personal response. His pen sits on a small porcelain rest where he set it down, and the ink well is still half full[1].
On the other desk there is little that hasn’t been made redundant by recent events, and only one object of real interest. An unopened letter set squarely in a neatly cleared space in front of where Wonse would usually sit, the paper folded precisely and sealed with wax.
It is addressed to Lupine Wonse esq, but Vetinari takes it back to his own desk to read it.
Dear Sir,
Please accept this communication as notice of my intention to leave your employment with immediate effect. I am aware that this will require me to sacrifice a half-quarter’s wages and release you from any obligation forthwith.
Should you need to reach me for any purpose I believe you have my address on file.
Yours faithfully,
Rufus Drumknott
Third Clerk to the Patrician’s Office
A minor matter, he thinks, setting it down in his in tray and picking up the missive from the Counterweight Continent. To which a brief note will, he decides, suffice as response for the moment.
The petition can be safely ignored until enquiries have been made. Certainly it is less of a priority than getting the incinerated or otherwise devastated areas of the city rebuilt. He will also need to speak to the palace guard. He had expected no particular loyalty from them, but given that their former king was going to eat people and only the disparate rabble in the Night Watch has raised a hand to prevent it he’s not inclined to pull any punches either.
There are, as he has just explained to Vimes, only ever bad people, but in the privacy of his own head Vetinari is prepared to admit that some are worse than others.
It occurs to him that in order to avoid rumour there will need to be some sort of proclamation regarding recent events. He is just putting this together when a distant sound, something that might perhaps be the faint wuff of a terrier looking for his master, brings Vetinari’s head back up from his work, causing him to wipe his pen clean and set it down, move swiftly to the door and set his ear to it.
He can hear a voice, the slightly singsong speech otherwise sensible people use to address small dogs and smaller children, coming closer. A light footfall.
A scrabbling, scampering sound, a snuffling at the base of the door.
‘Good boy.’ Someone says. Speech polished but not posh, near enough now that Vetinari steps back two sword lengths in instinct. ‘Is he there then? Is he in his office?’
Then the handle is turned, and the door pushed open just far enough for a small wirehaired terrier to squeeze himself through the gap and launch himself across the carpet, wriggling and barking in an ecstasy of doggy joy as Vetinari stoops down to pick him up and make a fuss of him.
After a moment a sleek head also pops round to check all is well in the room. Dark eyes blink behind spectacles.
‘And you are?’ Vetinari asks.
‘Drumknott sir.’ The young man enters and closes the door quietly behind him. He is clad in the dull grey robe of a clerk, a pale diffusion of freckles, and hair of a shade of brown so light that it might well look blond on someone more charismatic. ‘I brought Wuffles back to my sister’s. He’s been very well-behaved.’[2]
‘Has he indeed. That is rather more than one can say for the rest of the city.’
‘Yes my lord.’
‘You wrote this letter and left it on Mr Wonse’s desk, did you not?’
‘Yes sir.’ If he is surprised to be confronted with this he hides it well.
‘Rufus Drumknott, Third Clerk to the Patrician’s Office. Underlined, no less.’
‘I wrote it just after the guild leaders were told about the… tribute, sir. I was rather annoyed.’
‘Well, given that I don’t intend to devour anyone Mr Drumknott, perhaps you would care to withdraw your resignation?’ Vetinari holds the letter out so that he can take it back. ‘There is plenty of work to do.’
‘Yes sir. I could make a start by bringing up the correspondence we’ve got downstairs in the office, and perhaps take a tally of which staff members are still here.’ Drumknott tucks the letter away as he speaks.
‘Excellent. A cup of tea would also be most welcome.’
‘Of course, My Lord.’
‘In addition, there is a hoard of items that will need returning to their respective rooms, and much work for glaziers and joiners, but that is of a lesser concern for now.’
‘I’ll draft a note for the artisan’s guild to send someone round.’
‘I would ordinarily task my secretary with these matters, you understand, but I find myself temporarily without.’
‘I know sir. I met Captain Vimes just outside the gates. He’s going to send someone for the body.’ Drumknott moves towards the door. ‘I’ll get those letters now.’
‘Thank you, oh and Drumknott?’
Rufus Drumknott turns, hand already on the door handle, apparently unruffled, ready to go and do as asked.
‘My lord?’
‘Thank you for looking after my dog. It is much appreciated.’
[1] Or half-empty. It’s all a matter of perspective, and whether you actually want to do the paperwork.
[2] This is not, strictly speaking true or even what Drumknott intended to say. It is the practiced and well-meant fib of an affectionate uncle occasionally asked to babysit, and he has fallen back on it in broadly similar circumstances under stress.