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Even on a purely conceptual level, Vimes has a problem with the idea of ‘fencing’. To Vimes, the purpose of a sword is to help to keep you alive in dangerous situations, and to do just enough damage that the other guy won’t get up and punch you immediately after; fencing is not, as far as he can tell, dangerous, and most of the techniques used seem far more concerned with showing off than with practicality.
As such, fencing is one of the few things that has been suggested to him by Lady Sybil which he has categorically vetoed. Vimes has always been vaguely aware of the idea that exercise and adrenaline can be good for blowing off certain kinds of steam – and to be fair, throwing himself in the general direction of armed criminals had been almost as much of a recurring habit as the drinking prior to his marriage. He understands, hypothetically, why she thinks it’s a good idea for him to try fencing out. It makes a certain amount of sense. It’s just the damned principle of the thing.
If he’s honest, Vimes has actually been missing the experience of putting himself directly in the path of someone’s blade more than once or twice in a blue moon, when the situation is especially dire. Sure, there are training exercises routinely at Pseudopolis Yard partly for this exact reason, but the new recruits have always been Carrot’s job, and frankly, they wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Fighting Carrot himself, on the other hand, would feel… dirty, somehow, so that’s a ‘no’. Too much like indulgence, not enough like a real fight.
Essentially, Vimes is itching for some kind of new and interesting peril which he can throw himself into headfirst, preferably painfully jarring his neck in the process.
Surprisingly, it is Vetinari who first suggests the idea of the two of them sparring: Vimes arrives for his 11am report no more than a minute (or ten) late, as he tends to, just to keep the Patrician guessing. It’s a miserably grey day, the weather matching closely with Vimes’s mood, much to his continuing annoyance. This week has been slow so far, to the degree that being Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch can ever truly be slow – meaning, minor to medium level crimes have been ticking on as usual, leaving Vimes with a enough paperwork to fill a small mansion, but with no problems huge enough to create a plausible excuse for Sir Samuel himself to personally take to the streets to do anything about any of it. The stir-craziness is to give anyone a semi-permanent tension headache.
Vimes is expecting a snarky comment about his lateness, or at least a bemused look, when he does eventually knock on the door to the Oblong Office. However, when Vimes gingerly opens the door, he finds Vetinari uncharacteristically (and somewhat unnervingly, Vimes thinks) cheerful.
“Ah, Vimes!” Vetinari says, putting down his pen. “Just the man I was hoping to meet this morning.”
“Well, I do have a standing appointment, sir,” Vimes says, fixing his gaze a few inches above the Patrician’s shoulder, as always. Just because Vetinari’s in a good mood doesn’t stop him from being your boss, or being a right tricksy bastard.
“Had an appointment.” Vetinari corrects. “I believe your appointment was officially at 11 o’clock, and I think you’ll find that it is,” he checks the clock. “Almost a quarter past.”
Vimes keeps his expression blank. “I’m sorry, sir, but you know how it is. I’ve got a city full of crime to keep on top of.”
“Yes, yes, Commander, I am acutely aware,” Vetinari rolls his eyes, barely perceptibly. “Lady Sybil tells me that you are always quite busy. Especially with all of this perfect crime-committing weather we’ve been having recently.”
“I s’pose you could call it that,” Vimes raises an eyebrow suspiciously, and glances towards the window, checking whether the semi-perpetual rain has magically stopped in the time it took him to get from the street to Vetinari’s office. It hasn’t.
“It’s also the ideal weather for a few rounds of sparring, don’t you think?” the Patrician muses, pointedly refusing to follow Vimes’s gaze towards the window. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to join me…?”
“What, me?” Vimes splutters, momentarily forgetting about his ‘never making eye contact with Vetinari’ rule.
What is that smug bastard up to? Did Sybil put him up to this? Vimes scans the Patrician’s face. When he finds no obvious clues, he quickly recovers himself.
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not exactly a classically trained fighter. Most of my sword experience comes from trying to knock out armed drunks before they can do the same to me. Thanks for the offer, but I doubt I’m the kind of man you’re looking for in a… training partner. Maybe try Downey, or someone.”
Vetinari wrinkles his nose and waves a hand dismissively. “Downey is a fool who couldn’t get a hit on me if he tried. No, playing with old schoolmates became boring quite some years ago – in fact, that’s exactly why I thought you might be an interesting candidate for a fencing partner. I was hoping you might offer a change of pace.”
“Sir, I am not a fencer,” Vimes puts as much judgement into the word as he can manage. “My job is to keep on top of criminals, not to entertain the Patrician when he has nothing better to do with his Tuesday. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m sworn not to try and hurt you, or something of the like.”
The top of Vimes’s stomach is beginning to flutter with what he is choosing to label as unease, though admittedly it might be tinged with a healthy degree of curiosity. His general sense of stubborn pride begins a battle with the feeling.
Vetinari raises an eyebrow, amused. “That’s unfair on me, Commander. Frankly, I’d like to see you try getting a weapon close enough to me to pose a threat real enough to violate any oaths.” He smiles. “Besides, if that’s a concern of yours, surely practice is a good way to prevent anybody from being able to harm me in future. You could think of it as a training exercise of sorts, for the both of us.”
Well, when he puts it that way… Vimes’s curiosity wins the fight. He swallows his trepidation, and nods. “Alright, I s’pose there’d be no harm in a few rounds.”
Vetinari neatens the papers on his desk. “Capital. I’ll get my sword.”
Vetinari leads Vimes outside into the palace grounds and out an area of grass, mercifully protected from the Ankh-Morpork weather by a glass overhang above and the high palace walls on either side. The bag that Vetinari brings with him looks to Vimes somewhat like a sleeker version of one of the musical instrument bags carried by street performers. The Patrician sets it down against the wall, producing a rapier and two fencing masks. He seems to consider the masks for a moment, then puts them back in the bag.
“I’m no fencing expert,” Vimes says, with some pride. “But I’m fairly sure you’re supposed to wear one of those, when you’re not trying to get anyone killed.”
Vetinari shrugs off his tailored jacket. “I find that fencing masks tend to disrupt the peripheral vision, and lull the wearer into a false sense of security which ultimately causes everyone involved’s performance to suffer.” He flashes Vimes what might be a cunning smile. “Maybe I’ll reconsider once you show any hope of getting anywhere near my face."
Vimes snorts. This entire situation is getting more absurd by the minute. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a challenge, sir.”
Vetinari gives him an amused look and hefts the rapier, seemingly getting used to its weight. It’s a mean weapon, Vimes thinks, much thinner, sharper, and a few inches longer than his own shortsword. The handle is, thankfully, not as laughably ornate as some rapiers he’s seen (usually carried by people who employ other people to make sure they’ll never have to get the blade dirty), but the spindly bits [quillons, to anyone but Vimes] are curved maliciously and decorated with carvings, and Vetinari’s knuckles are protected by a thin handguard which stretches to the similarly ornate nobble on the end [pommel]. The overall impression, Vimes begrudgingly admits in the privacy of his own head, is not of a weapon too fancy to ever be used by the nob carrying it, but of something as elegant as it is dangerous.
Much like Vetinari himself, Vimes supposes, then shakes away the thought, wondering vaguely where it came from.
Soon Vetinari approaches, pushing up his black shirtsleeves so that they aren’t in his way. It’s oddly intimate, standing across from him in anything less than an overcoat or a floor-length ceremonial robe. The all-black outfit reminds Vimes somewhat of the assassins who used to crawl in through his windows when they thought he would be off his guard. Vimes is suddenly grateful for Vetinari’s decision not to cover his face. He draws his sword and squares his stance.
“I don’t know how they do this in your world, Vimes, but in mine, we generally bow before we take a guard.” Vetinari says reproachfully.
“Bow?” Vimes laughs in semi-disbelief. Bloody nobs and their absurd, fancy rituals. “What, I’ve never even fenced before and I’m supposed to treat you like you’re royalty right before I try and stab you?”
“That’s not quite as ridiculous as you make it out to be, Sir Samuel.” Vetinari says pointedly. “And no, I believe that rather than a statement of hierarchy, it’s supposed to be a sign of respect, with the implicit promise not to do any permanent damage.”
Vetinari bows gracefully, making a point to maintain eye contact. Vimes feels something in him bristle, but he ignores it and bows stiffly. As a general rule, he isn’t a fan of the idea of bowing to anyone, especially Vetinari, but it seems rude not to return the favour, if it truly is a promise not to commit any actual murder. Vimes feels Vetinari’s gaze on him all the way down.
“Can we start, then?” Vimes says, mouth suddenly very dry.
“Patience, Commander.” Vetinari smiles schemingly; he seems to be doing that a lot today. It sets Vimes’s teeth on edge. “All that is left is to establish my ground rules: no punching, if you please, but I will allow grappling. We should aim to hit only with the flat of the blade, and as a favour to me, try to avoid going for my head if you can help it. I do rather need it for my work.”
“What did you think I was going to do, stab you directly through the face?” It’s a bad joke, Vimes knows, but the bow was bad enough, and he’s beginning to lose patience. This is shaping up to feel like more unnecessary pomp than the sparring could possibly be worth.
“Vimes, the sheer unlikeliness of you doing exactly that is exactly why I think you could be an ideal training partner, under the right circumstances,” Vetinari sighs, pinching his nosebridge. “As a rule, however, I generally prefer to reduce plausible deniability before I let someone run at me with a sword, because no matter how unlikely, there is still always a possibility that I won’t have a chance to remind them of the accepted etiquette after the fact. Now, if you are quite ready, we’ll start off slowly.”
In Vimes’s experience, when someone comes at you with a sword, there is absolutely nothing friendly or sportsmanlike about it. As a result, he isn’t really sure what to expect from this, beyond a vague notion that what he’s engaging in is essentially a way for rich bastards to play with their fancy weapons without having to risk the same consequences as the people who pick up a less pretty sword out of necessity. Without the stakes, there’s no real winning or losing, and no real adrenaline rush or grim, shameful satisfaction afterwards. It’s going to be fake, somehow.
When the fencing actually starts, he finds that the first few exchanges are clumsy and slow. Vetinari swings first, picking a guard which involves holding the rapier out from his face in a manner which Vimes thinks would look like a cartoon unicorn if he was looking at it from the right angle. Vetinari slashes at Vimes from right to left, and Vimes parries with force, stepping to the right and out of the way as he does so. Without withdrawing his sword, he brings the flat of the blade down on Vetinari’s shoulder.
“Fascinating,” Vetinari says as Vimes withdraws, sounding like he means it.
“What?” Vimes asks.
Vetinari waves a hand. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. When I get the chance to do this, I often find myself in combat with people using thinner blades or small knives rather than shortswords. I need to re-accustom myself to some of your techniques.”
“As far as I’m concerned I’m not using any techniques.” Vimes says flatly.
“Everybody uses techniques, Commander, whether they call them that or not.” Vetinari says. “Although yours are certainly on the cruder end, as fencers go. Usually I would have expected an opponent to bind onto my sword and counterattack from the bind following that kind of cut, but you chose to parry and dodge. It’s… unorthodox. Though, I think that might partly be due to your choice of weapon.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Vimes says, suddenly feeling very perceived. “I suppose my thought process is, why be close to your sword for longer than I need to? Might as well get out of the way if I can.”
“Well, quite.” Vetinari agrees, then adjusts the sword in his hand and takes up another guard. Vimes follows.
This time, with increased confidence, it is Vimes who attacks first, taking a high guard and bringing his sword downwards towards the Patrician’s chest. Vetinari steps nimbly around the blow. Having put most of his weight into the attack, it takes Vimes a second to redirect his momentum and turn around. When he does, he is immediately face-to-face with Vetinari, and the rapier point is pressed firmly into his breastplate.
“Sometimes I worry for you, Vimes,” Vetinari says disapprovingly. “If it’s this easy to get a sword to your chest, it’s a wonder you haven’t gotten yourself killed already.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what the armour is for. And maybe my reaction time is better when it’s life or death,” Vimes grumbles. And when I’m allowed to kick the other guy in the crotch, he adds silently. Vetinari is positioned quite conveniently, actually, from that perspective.
“Yes, you do appear to be holding back somewhat.” Vetinari thinks for a moment.
“Would you rather I kick your teeth in?” Vimes jokes.
“A fair point.” Vetinari chuckles. “But, I wonder…”
Before Vimes has a chance to prepare himself, Vetinari steps back into a low stance and stabs upwards towards Vimes’s arm. Vimes steps back instinctively, muscle memory briefly taking over. Using his sword for cover over his face and neck, he darts towards Vetinari, fist raised. As Vetinari goes in for another attack, Vimes ducks, grabbing Vetinari’s blade as it falls towards a target that is no longer there.
Vimes yanks the rapier out of the Patrician’s grip and points his own sword triumphantly towards Vetinari's chest.
“Easy to put a sword in my chest, is it, sir?” He smirks.
“Ah, now there’s the Sam Vimes I know.” There is more than a small hint of satisfaction in Vetinari’s voice.
Vimes grins and hands back the rapier, handle first. The whole thing bends under the weight of the handle when he holds it by the blade. Vimes fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“Is my sword not to your liking, Vimes?” Vetinari runs his fingers along the length of the metal, unconvincingly feigning offence.
“It just seems so bloody flimsy,” Vimes says. “No offence, but I doubt you could block a decent hit with that thing without it completely buckling. If one of my men showed up to work carrying something like that, we’d be having serious words about personal safety and the importance of not having a death wish.”
“I suppose you’re right that it wouldn’t be especially suited to police-work, no,” Vetinari says. “It is certainly not intended to be a strong parrying weapon. I rather like it, though.”
Vimes frowns incredulously. Vetinari can clearly tell that he isn’t convinced.
“Hold out your sword, commander. Let me show you that mine isn’t completely useless when it comes to personal protection.”
Vimes shrugs, and holds his sword out and upwards in a basic forward guard.
“A Watch sword isn’t ideal for this demonstration, however…”
Vetinari lunges forward with his own blade, locking it onto the flat of Vimes’s. Then, he twists the rapier, pushing it and his entire body weight towards Vimes’s body as he does so. To Vimes’s surprise, he finds his short-sword trapped by Vetinari’s crossguard, causing his blade to be pushed up and backwards, keeping it out of Vetinari’s path as the Patrician continues to surge towards him. The slender blade once again rams unimpeded into Vimes’s breastplate, bending with the force of the impact.
“This would have worked better with a sword that binds better, but the point stands,” Vetinari says. “Short-swords as thick as that one rarely play well with rapiers.”
“Right,” Vimes replies, momentarily at a loss for what to say. As ridiculous and pretentious as traditional fencing techniques obviously are, there is a small, shameful part of him that admires the elegance and competency of someone as skilled as Vetinari, at least when they’re not being unnecessarily flamboyant about it. Vimes can imagine real-world applications for this kind of thing, at least; some dagger-wielding unlicensed thief in the streets wouldn’t have the faintest idea what had hit them if Vetinari or one of the other Assassins started hooking their weapons around their sword and stabbing them when they can’t do anything about it. It’s too violent to ever actually use in the Watch, but there’s still something oddly satisfying about the hypothetical.
Vimes is suddenly aware that he has been staring at the sword at his sternum for far longer than is probably socially acceptable.
“Are you alright, Commander?” Vetinari gives him a strange and unreadable look as he lowers the weapon, untangling Vimes’s sword.
Vimes clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”
“In that case, I suggest we continue after a short break,” Vetinari says. “This has been a pleasant warmup, but I would prefer to have a few decent exchanges which last more than three or four moves between us. Perhaps after some tea?”
“Tea works.” Yes, tea. That will help with the increasing dryness in Vimes’s mouth.
Leaving Vimes to remember how to function, Vetinari summons a servant from gods-know-where, and a slender metal table is brought out, along with two folding chairs. Vetinari sits down, still wearing the waistcoat and shirtsleeves which Vimes finds to be frankly scandalous in comparison to the Patrician’s usual outfits. Vimes almost feels compelled to remove his breastplate to balance things out. Almost.
A servant arrives with a pot of tea, and Vimes gives an awkward half-smile and nod of thanks to her. Vetinari pours tea for both of them, adding lemon to his own, and leaving Vimes to add what he wants. He adds copious milk and sugar, then leans back in his chair. Like most fancy teacups that get handed to him in buildings like this one, the cup feels disproportionately small in the Commander’s hands.
“So, what is it that they actually taught you about swords at the Assassins’ Guild then?” Vimes hates to admit it, but some of Vetinari’s skill has him a little curious; being able to easily attack and defend simultaneously would be of an obvious advantage if he could figure out how to get Carrot to teach it to the recruits.
Vetinari wrinkles his nose. “They mostly taught the old Genuan masters, since that’s what is generally considered traditional in the old families. It was a passable foundation to an education, but personally I’ve been getting more out of reading more recent works which fuse Genuan and Uberwaldian styles with Morporkian Common Fencing. I find that the move-sets are far less predictable when your opponent happens to be equally familiar with the Genuan School.”
“What, learning sword-fighting from a book?” Vimes almost bursts out laughing at the idea. “Is that anything like the Marquis of Fantailler?”
A smile ghosts Vetinari’s face. “No, Vimes, I think you’ll find that fencing masters are far more useful than your old friend the Marquis. For one thing, they do not assume that your opponent has read the same book of etiquette as you have. Quite the opposite, often.”
“Still, there’s no way in hell that a book can teach you all the important stuff. The only way to really learn how to fight is by getting hit in ways you’ll never want to again.” Vimes can hear the incredulity practically dripping from his own voice.
“I rather think that the books exist to prevent you from needing to get hit in the first place, Vimes, because the authors have already done it for you,” Vetinari says. “Besides, they do suggest that you try the techniques out in training before you use them in mortal combat. Though, I find that a strong grasp of theory is sometimes enough without practice, even if one’s technique becomes more refined with some precise repetition.”
“Theory, my arse.” Vimes takes a loud sip of his tea. “Respectfully, of course, sir.”
“Truthfully, Commander, I think you could benefit from reading some of the old masters. You may find that Knockim Higher, especially, has some techniques that may interest you.” If Vetinari is winding Vimes up on purpose, it isn’t clear from his face – not that that means much with Vetinari.
“I bet I could knock ‘im higher than he could knock me.” Vimes says sourly, taking the probable bait.
The Patrician’s eyebrows twitch in amusement. “Far be it from me to tell you that you’re wrong, Vimes. However, I will say that your footwork so far has been leaving much to be desired.”
“It’s kept me alive so far.” Vimes says defensively. “That’s the point, as far as I’m concerned. The thing about old masters is that they’re all already dead, and I’m not. I think that means I’m doing something right.”
“If I remember correctly, Higher died of disease, not in a fight,” Vetinari says, placing his teacup delicately on its saucer. “But I take your point. Now, are you ready to start giving me a proper challenge?”
Vimes grunts his assent and drains the rest of his tea.
When they pick the swords back up again, the general energy of the situation feels different, somehow. More charged. More serious. For some reason, Vimes gets the distinct sense that he has something important to prove to Vetinari, or possibly that Vetinari has something to prove to him.
Vetinari bows to him again, low and smooth, stretching his arms out in the way Vimes imagines a crow would. Vimes returns it with a half-bob of his head and shoulders.
There is a pause, both men waiting for the other to move. Vimes takes up a simple low guard. Vetinari stretches the sword out in front of him, licking his lips.
The next couple of seconds are almost a blur for Vimes. There is a pause, and then Patrician lunges at him, faster than any movement either of them have made so far. Vimes dodges, whacking Vetinari’s rapier hard with his own blade as he does so. This seems to break Vetinari’s flow, because he steps around Vimes, hastily taking up another high guard.
Using the momentum from the dodge, Vimes spins around without thinking, going for a strike to Vetinari’s chest. Vetinari parries upwards, sliding his blade over Vimes’s in an attempt to bring the point down on the Commander’s bicep. Vimes steps back, allowing himself to put more force into the point where the two blades meet, and he forces Vetinari’s sword-arm to the right and away from his body.
With their two swords pushed to the side, the two men are almost face-to-face, panting from the acceleration. Vimes feels a bead of sweat slide down the side of his face.
Vetinari looks slowly to the side where their swords are caught in the bind. Vimes follows his gaze; the steel shortsword is close to Vetinari’s arm, almost to the point of touching it. If he just brings his arm round slightly towards Vetinari’s shoulder…
“Nicely done, Vimes,” Vetinari says. “That’s a point to you.”
“Ah, it’s only your shoulder.” Vimes smiles, suddenly aware that, against his better judgement, he is beginning to enjoy himself. “It’s not really life-threatening, is it?”
Vetinari considers this momentarily. “Best of three?”
Vimes nods.
They separate, and Vetinari barely gives Vimes enough time to withdraw and take up a guard before he’s attacking again, just as fast as the last time. This time, however, Vetinari steps back and snipes at Vimes’s ankles, taking advantage of his longer blade. Vimes reflexively jumps backwards, holding his sword protectively out in front of him.
Vetinari retreats into a parry with a small chuckle. “I’m pleasantly surprised, Vimes. I used to infuriate the other boys with that one as a teenager – every single time, they were frustrated that they fell for such a cheap trick.”
“In my line of work, sir, very few people fight by any code of honour,” Vimes replies. “Someone taking shots at my ankles could almost be considered fair play by the standards of Ankh-Morpork criminals.”
“Maybe you should write your own fight manual, Commander.”
Vimes chooses not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he ducks under Vetinari’s parry, grabbing the thin blade with his free hand as he does so to prevent it from coming down on his head. Then, when he is just about close enough, he brings the point of his sword up to Vetinari’s chin, stopping just short of actually trimming the Patrician’s goatee with the recently-sharpened blade.
“And grappling! You really are full of surprises today, Sir Samuel.” If Vetinari is even remotely bothered by having a sharp sword directly alongside his throat, there is no sign of it in his face or tone.
“That’s two to me, and you said best of three.” Vimes says. “I think I’ve won.”
“It would appear so,” Vetinari admits. “Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” says Vimes, though for some reason he can’t quite identify, the victory feels hollow and anticlimactic; not especially satisfying. The two men separate, and there is an awkward beat, where neither of them seem willing to actually put the swords away. Vimes shuffles his feet on the grass.
“I think,” Vetinari says eventually, slowly. “That it might be enjoyable for the both of us if we were to do the final exchange anyway.”
“Better not to leave things unfinished.” Vimes agrees.
“Quite.”
There is another silence. Not knowing quite what else to do, Vimes repeats his awkward half-bob. Vetinari returns it with another low, sweeping bow.
“Final exchange.” Vetinari announces, in a tone which Vimes usually only hears during official proceedings; it’s a tone that commands action, and that helpfully clears away any degree of awkwardness or uncertainty.
Something stirs deep in Vimes’s gut, hungry and anticipatory.
“May the best man win, sir.”
Vetinari’s face flashes again with something unreadable, then breaks into a small smile as he takes up another elegant high guard. Vimes takes up his own, positioning his sword in front of his leg to guard against another sneaky ankle snipe.
There is a pause, before Vimes decides that he is going to be the one to attack first. He darts forwards, thrusting the tip of his blade towards Vetinari’s chest. Vetinari parries downwards, knocking Vimes’s sword to the side. Vimes loses his balance ever so slightly, and steps back and outwards, once again holding his sword out in front of him for protection.
Vetinari comes in for a strike to Vimes’s shoulder. Vimes steps back again out of the path of the cut and beats the lighter blade towards the ground with his own. Clearly having predicted this, Vetinari uses the momentum of Vimes’s strike to swing the rapier around, sending the flat of the blade towards Vimes’s head and leaving almost no time to react.
Acting purely on blind instinct, Vimes parries with his sword, shielding his head and neck with the combined strength of the blade and both of his forearms. However, before he can fully process, the handle of Vetinari’s sword is suddenly being hooked around the inside of his elbow, and the flat of the blade is being pushed into contact with the top of his head, whilst Vetinari’s arm presses against his own, preventing Vimes’s sword from moving.
Vimes’s mind is completely empty.
The two men stay there for a second, both breathing heavily, before Vetinari steps back, withdrawing the sword with a look of deep satisfaction.
“I thought we agreed on no head shots,” Vimes tries lamely. That seemed to end far too quickly – embarrassment wriggles under his skin, tinged with the beginnings of annoyance.
“As we have established, I have never been above the occasional cheap trick.” Vetinari shrugs. “Really, I wasn’t expecting that to actually work on you.”
Vimes frowns, cheeks beginning to redden with righteous indignation. “How in the bloody hell could it not have?”
Vetinari pauses, seemingly genuinely caught off guard.
“Get back into that parry,” he says, after a moment of thought.
Vimes does. Slowly, Vetinari hooks the handle around his elbow again, and presses the blade towards his head, holding it at the point just before it would make contact.
Suddenly, Vimes is acutely aware of the way that his leg and hip are pressed against Vetinari’s. Their faces are close together, too, with only the rapier between them, and Vimes can smell Vetinari’s aftershave, and the hint of sweat now underneath it. He swallows, reddening more with an emotion he cannot identify.
“Now,” Vetinari says. Vimes isn’t sure if he imagines it, but the Patrician almost sounds out of breath. “Step around my front ankle with your right leg.”
Vimes obeys. Now even closer, he can feel Vetinari’s breath on his cheek. More than that, though, now that he has time to think, he can feel that Vetinari is just barely on the way to overbalancing, his arms and shoulders pressing towards Vimes and leaving his legs a few inches further back than would be ideal. All it would take would be…
“And gently push my sword-arm with that trapped elbow.”
Vimes does.
Vetinari hits the grass shoulder-first with a soft grunt. He turns the fall into a roll, and stands, putting down his sword to brush himself off.
“See?” He says merrily. “That could easily have been your win.”
“Well, I see that now!” Vimes says indignantly.
“Was it not obvious to begin with?” Vetinari asks. “This is exactly what the old masters talk about; it’s about leverage. You have to make sure that your ‘strong’ is always against their ‘weak’, and you take advantage when the opportunity strikes. I may have had my blade in the better position, but my balance was weak, and yours was strong. I looked safer, but you had the true advantage. By rights, it should have been your victory.”
“I tend to find that the easiest way of having your ‘strong’ against their ‘weak’ is to make sure you’re the one shoving harder.” It’s an oversimplification, Vimes knows, but he doesn’t want to have to admit that Vetinari is right. Honestly, it’s a lot like the kind of advice Sybil has been known to give him.
Vetinari laughs, not unkindly. “I suspect that’s why I am in politics, and why you are in policing, Commander.”
Vimes grunts a vague agreement, but his face still feels hot.
“In reality, it is probably accurate to say that you actually won,” Vetinari says after a moment. “After all, you are completely correct that we agreed not to aim for the head. By our own rules, I forfeited the victory.”
Now it’s Vimes’s turn to laugh. “Sir, I may not be a politician, but I do know one thing about politics: in any other situation, you’d be claiming that you won fair and square, and on top of that, you’d be making life hell for the people who did play by the rules.”
“I see you’re learning quickly about both fencing and politics.” Vetinari replies.
They pack up the fencing equipment (Vimes pointedly reminding Vetinari that he did, in fact, prove himself to be a genuine threat, and so the Patrician should absolutely have been wearing a fencing mask for his own protection), and they carry it back into the palace. By now the rain has stopped, and the light filtering in through the windows of the Oblong Office isn’t exactly bright enough to be considered clear daylight, but it’s also not as miserable and grey as it had been a few hours previously.
Vetinari sits back down at his desk, now in a full state of dress by his usual standards. Vimes is frankly amazed at the fact that none of the Patrician’s hair has been pushed out of place by so much exercise. He knows that his own is completely wrecked, and his skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat which probably shows through his shirt.
“I very much enjoyed this, Vimes.” Vetinari says, retrieving his inkwell and beginning to select whichever vastly consequential paperwork he has been neglecting for the past hour.
“Me too, sir.” Vimes is surprised to realise that there is no hint of sarcasm in that statement. As much as he is still dreading going back to the minor mountain of paperwork he had almost forgotten about, his muscles are very slightly looser from the exertion, and for once it doesn’t take conscious effort to unclench his jaw.
“Splendid. I assume, then, that you are open to the idea that we might do this again sometime?” If Vimes didn’t know better, he would call the Patrician’s facial expression ‘hopeful’.
“As long as the city doesn’t keep me too busy,” Vimes agrees. “But I imagine that if that does happen, you’ll be in pretty much the same position.”
“Yes, it does tend to go that way, doesn’t it?” Vetinari gives a dry smile. “Well, I shall look forward to it. Now, if that is all, don’t let me detain you.”
Vimes still wholeheartedly believes that fencing, in the upper-class sporting sense of the word, is completely stupid. Pretending to fight for the sake of showing off to friends too rich to be considered disposable enough for hand-to-hand combat with a real opponent is the pastime of people with far more time and privilege than anyone Vimes would willingly choose to give up hours out of his day to entertain.
However, as he whistles his way back to Pseudopolis Yard, he is willing to admit that fencing, as a pressure release valve of sorts and as a training exercise between experienced fighters like himself and Vetinari, might be something he has slightly more time for. It’s not the same as a real chase ending in what could easily become a perilous fight to the death, but it has its purpose and its appeal regardless. Even if he’s still definitely not going to try learning to fight from a book.
Ye gods, he thinks cheerily as he lights a cigar for himself outside of the Watchhouse. Sybil will have a field day with this when I tell her how right she was.