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“A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time...”
Men at Arms
Vimes likes his boots, that's a fact. Cheap, two-dollar boots with cardboard soles that weigh nothing, protect nothing and are only a tiny bit better than walking barefoot. Yet, they do what's important: they keep the toes an inch away from the pavement, which in summer means that Sam's toes aren't fried over the roasting cobblestones and in winter, the loose straps easily hold up the wraps he protects his own feet with from the cold, as long as the string is snugly tied. They look abhorrent, and Vimes appreciates it too. His boots are working boots, not for show, bought at the same place from the same shoemaker who cheats on the leather and attempts to raise his prices each year. Unsuccessfully, because he only has a clientele as long as these shoes cost two dollars. Poor boots for a poor job, done by poor Vimes. If the shoe fits.
In the Oblong Office, Vimes generally takes great precautions to keep his head straight and stare at the regulated three inches above the Patrician's shoulder. Looking elsewhere is dangerous. But sometimes, when Vetinari walks and turns, his long robe swishing, and he recites one of the dramatic monologues the man probably gets migraines if he doesn't compose, Vimes – despite his oaths not to look – still manages to steal glimpses of Vetinari's own boots. He knows they cannot be more different from his. He knows they cannot be. He knows it is dangerous to compare or even look.
Vetinari, just like Sam Vimes, doesn't change his likes or habits – Vimes is sure it comes with the profession. Bastard gods know he has enough novelty and excitement every day as it is, and Vetinari's job is even less merciful in that regard, so it isn't a surprise to Vimes that he sports the same design of footwear.
At first, he thinks that boots with the strength to withstand the heavy tread of the Patrician are no different to any other pair of a respectable nobleman's boots. Underneath the swishing robe – he scrutinises – Vetinari's boots cost fifty dollars, are black, have thick soles and are made of imported leather. They are troubling. They evoke memories.
The imported leather is always somewhat vexing because you can polish it with horseshit, and thanks to the pre-waxing, the damned thing still shines. Vimes hates it, on principle, but he does remember that it was good for business. When you were eleven and standing at the corner of one of the main squares, the sun frying your head, you most likely had nothing but a stolen kitchen rag and a box of horseshit paste you paid half a dollar for. If you were quick and rubbed it on thinly enough to mask the smell, the investment in the paste would earn you a dollar for each pair of shoes. And those dollars were of a better kind, just like the shoes. They were clean and shiny, and it felt like you were dirtying them with your smelly, greedy urchin hands.
Vimes hates to remember that, but he does it each time he thinks of Vetinari's boots. He is convinced that the Patrician has the same type of footwear – unfairly expensive, durable, but good for business nonetheless.
***
To his doom, down the road of their dutiful, barely-holding-together acquaintance, there finally come moments when Vetinari is no longer covered by his robe. His boots are then in Sam's full view. So he is able – with a morbid, useless fascination of an old drunk living off adrenaline – to take a good look at them. Despite knowing it is dangerous to look too closely at any part of Lord Vetinari, he does look. And he commits to memory things he doesn't want to remember.
Firstly, it speedily dawns on him that he is wrong. Vetinari's boots cost more than fifty dollars. They cost more than any pair Vimes polished as a kid. And since they clearly cost that much more, more than he's able to accurately guess, then it is pretty safe to assume that from the moment Sam first laid his eyes on them, all the way to the present day, when he's able to stare, Vetinari has been wearing the same pair. Relentlessly, day after day.
Literally no one else in Vimes's entire existence does a similar thing. No one.
Secondly, the boots aren't black. They are of the same dusty grey as the rest of Vetinari's daily outfit, except for the tips of the toe boxes, which are indeed black and shiny. They must never be polished to obnoxiousness, but they are discreetly elegant. Each boot snugs the leg up to the middle of a calf and the pair has a row of buttons on the outward side – mostly ornamental, Vimes is sure of it, because at the instep, the boots still need to be laced and tied.
Thirdly, boots do not have thick soles. Actually – Vimes squints – this detail is freaking weird, because it kinda looks as if one boot was placed higher than the oth–
"Commander," Vetinari's voice is cold like a dagger, "if you dream of changing professions and pursuing shoemaking, I would like to know in advance."
Vimes's face ashens as he straightens up.
"Sir."
Vetinari stares at him. As if he were a boot. He barely suppresses a shiver that runs along the line of his spine.
Vetinari's icy eyes are no less cold than the tone of his voice.
And then. Then he crosses his leg, putting one of the boots entirely on display.
Vimes nearly breaks his teeth by gritting them.
***
How does the saying go? Do not judge unless you are in the other person's shoes?
A couple of years later, miles walked, countless cheap, two-dollar shoes torn to pieces, Vimes nearly grinds his teeth to dust as he kneels – a clean, woollen rag in one hand, the expensive Klatchian shoepaste in the other. The boots are in front of him.
Vetinari's boots. The same pair he remembers, all the way back from the first glance to the present day.
While polishing, it was best not to look up too much from the kneeling position; the nobs didn't like that.
Vimes's head jerks up defiantly.
His eyes meet an icy, steady gaze framed by sharp features, not to mention the twist of the thin, pale lips that makes your veins feel as if they are filled with molten iron.
Vetinari in his Patrician's chair looks properly tyrannical. Cold eyes. Cold expression. He has none of Carrot's grace (thank bastard gods!). He is rigidness, and duty, and these boots that threaded through (and over) the last decade of Vimes's life, to the point where he now recalls the noise they make on the floor of the Oblong Office, these bloody boots finally require polishing.
"How much for simonising, Sam?" Vetinari tilts his head. His long, bony white finger taps the armrest his hand is resting on twice.
It takes inhuman effort for Vimes to unlock his jaw.
"You cannot afford me," he growls.
Vetinari preens in his coldness, as if he heard the right answer.
Vimes throws down the indecently luxurious rag, opens the paste container, puts it nearby and now has the time to properly inspect the footwear. He reaches out, touching the leather with his fingertips. He breathes through his nose, slower and slower, calming down.
On this second, most intimate inspection, he can attest that he hasn't been wrong about the soles – his old eyes didn't deceive him, it is a weird design. The sole of the right boot is thinner than the left by a couple of inches. That must be because the left leg was the one that bore the shot of the gonne. The thinner sole must be for the ease of walking, if Vetinari's entire posture has adjusted to the injury.
His hands run over the ridiculous rows of buttons – indeed, only for show, he snorts – and he swiftly unlaces the part at the instep, first on the right shoe, then on the left, pulling out the lace completely, twirling both pieces together and putting them aside.
He carries on with exploring. The leather is soft and well taken care of. It is definitely imported, but guessing from where it's from is like telling Nobby not to filch anything from the crime scene. Underneath Vimes's touch, the texture feels pleasantly rough, the best quality money can buy.
"Watch your fingers, Vimes," Vetinari's tone is as cold as everything else about him.
It sparks a flare of anger inside Vimes's gut. "I won't mar your precious boots," he grinds out through his teeth. "I know what I'm doing."
Vetinari's eyes narrow, highlighting the web of the crow's feet around the ice. "This is not what I mean."
Vimes blinks and leans in. He starts to inspect the boots more carefully.
He snatches his hands back in terror.
"What the hell is that?!"
Both boots have thin cracks at the top of the outsoles' rims, barely visible.
"Ah. Good eyes, Vimes. These are blades."
"Blades," he repeats. His fingers tremble.
The thin crack that allows for the ejection of the blade at the front is almost invisible. His heart beats a bit louder.
His lips go dry. "How," he says, slowly as he raises his head, "how the hell does that work?"
Vetinari is still preening, obviously preening, and his eyes, as if it were possible, get even colder.
"It is a rather simple spring mechanism, involving the right amount of pressure in the right place. I'd rather you didn't concern yourself with such matters, Commander. I assure you, you are in no danger.” He pauses. "Unless, of course, you decide to pull at my boot in unpredictable ways."
The awareness hangs in the air quite heavily.
Vimes swallows. This is such a typical assassin's trick. Annoyed, he grabs the stark-white rag, clean and slightly damp. The left boot — the boot on the wounded leg, with the thinner sole — is actually quite clean.
To get revenge for the blades, he leans forward and spits. Violently.
The wet lump lands at the centre of the toe box, desecrating the black leather. It slowly slides down and Vimes watches its slow, agonising descent.
He expected the act to feel good, even elating. It does not. Something sharp gnaws at Vimes's insides, and a part of him recognises it as shame. And that's when he hears it.
A delicate sigh, like a falling feather. He shouldn't look up. He shouldn't. He should–
His head jerks up again.
Vetinari's icy eyes are wide and his sharp features have a certain softness that wasn't there before. His thin lips, parted slightly, shine with moisture; he must have licked them just a second ago. If he was preening before, now he seems outright prideful.
Crimson covers Vimes's entire face.
He lowers himself and grabs the light foot with his free hand; suddenly, he remembers the hidden mechanism, which stills his movements. And then he realises that it is the boot with a thinner sole, which causes another gnawing deep in his chest.
His hands move on their own. The cloth wipes off the spit, bringing a shine to the blackness. His grip on the boot loosens as he moves his palm up and caresses the back of the boot, from the sole to the calf. He needs to apply the polish in quick, thin layers. He needs to lift the leg and put it on his shoulder because Vetinari might want to stretch it. Vimes will probably have to contort himself but it will not last long, and he’ll manage. He needs to use spit now because it is just water and later, it would mess up the protective coating. Spit, wipe, polish, then do the same with the other boot. And then– And then–
These boots walked all over the last decade of his life. Now, after they will be polished and clean, he desperately needs to feel their weight on his empty chest, until Vetinari's icy eyes look more prideful than Vimes has ever remembered them being.