Chapter Text
4:00 a.m.
As a clock in the darkness chimed four in the morning, Rufus Drumknott strode into his office by the wispy light of the single candle he carried. Some mornings the orange and yellow lights of Ankh-Morpork tinted the room with a coppery sheen. But that morning, like so many autumn dawns, the fog oozed against the windowpanes like water from the Ankh, reducing the room to murk.
Drumknott lit the candelabra on either side of his desk, banishing the gloom to the corners of his small office. Books, notebooks, file folders, paper, pencils, pens, and inkwells spanned his desk, all arranged just so. A number of the files required his immediate attention, as would the overnight reports, but his hand wandered toward a hidden drawer where he kept one particular notebook.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Yes?” He folded his hands on the desktop.
“Good morning, Mr. Drumknott.” James Vigil ambled in with the care of an older man of pride whose body stiffened while sitting too long. The senior overnight clerk handed over a thinner-than-usual folder. “It’s been a quiet night, sir. Even the thieves and assassins have been laying low, I’m told.”
Drumknott shook his head at that. There was always someone foolish enough or paid well enough—or both—to make trouble in the worst of weather. For that matter, thieves and assassins relished the fog.
“Commander Vimes?” Drumknott opened the folder of overnight reports to the summary on top.
“No trouble to speak of, sir. The latest report from the house says Sir Samuel and Lady Sybil are sleeping soundly. No assassins on or near the premises.”
Drumknott smiled a smile he knew was entirely too smug for his position. If Commander Vimes discovered the palace had a spy on his household staff, he would…what was that word the watchmen used?
Oh, yes.
He would go spare.
But the spy, handpicked by Drumknott, had gone undetected so far…unlike the spies who observed the sprawling property from the streets.
Last year, an assassin targeting Vimes inadvertently cornered a spy in an overgrown patch of garden near the edge of the Ramkin-Vimes property, a spy who happened to be a gnome with the disposition of a hornet. A drawn-out scuffle ensued, involving rusty garden tools, rotting scarecrows, and…windchimes. The commander had run from the house toward the melee only to collapse in the grass, laughing.
Commander Vimes and Lord Vetinari had stared at each other for a long time later that morning as Drumknott stood just as frozen by the door, but nothing was ever said out loud, and the spies had stayed in place—even the gnome, who had since flaunted his on-going presence by growing vegetables around a scarecrow dressed in a particular assassin’s black trousers.
The Assassins’ Guild forfeited that contract. But now, the Guild held a fresh contract on Commander Vimes. Drumknott tapped his fingers on his desk.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Drumknott. An assassin won’t take a shot at Sir Samuel with Lady Sybil so close. Rules and all.”
“An assassin very well could, if they were certain there was no risk to Lady Sybil. A knife to the throat comes to mind.” Drumknott tapped faster.
Vigil scoffed. “But then the poor bastard would have to escape Lady Sybil, sir.”
Drumknott smiled again. “May the gods bless her.” But then, with no humor in his voice, he added, “The Assassins’ Guild will make a move later if not sooner. Before you leave for the day, please review the emergency plans for the Watch with the day clerks. If the worst happens, we won’t have time to flail about.”
And if the worst happens, may the gods damn Commander Vimes, Drumknott thought. The commander had the money to hire assassins for protection, but refused to do so. The arrogant scuggin barely utilized his own Watch to counter the assassins.
The newly revitalized Watch could founder without Commander Vimes, and not only that…
A bell chimed.
Drumknott stood quickly. It was quarter-past four in the morning. His lordship seldom summoned Drumknott much before six unless he hadn’t slept. He sighed.
Dawn never crept into the city without sensing the watchful gaze of the Patrician. Likewise, his lordship never rose so early that Drumknott wasn’t prepared and waiting. However, when the Guild of Assassins held a contract on Commander Vimes, Lord Vetinari barely slept at all, and no amount of feigned disinterest could hide that pattern from Drumknott.
Understanding Lord Havelock Vetinari was ninety percent of his job. The rest only required good handwriting.
The Patrician couldn’t interfere with a Guild contract in an official capacity. There was a tremendous amount he could do unofficially, but if the wrong people came to suspect that Lord Vetinari had a vice, a vice in the form of a person, they would exploit that vice with alacrity. Such was the political reality of Ankh-Morpork.
Commander Vimes had a sporting chance against the occasional assassin. But if he became known as the Patrician’s only known personal weakness…good gods, the man would be hunted.
So the palace did nothing except project polite disinterest.
It was maddening.
“Do excuse me,” said Drumknott hastily.
“Of course, sir.”
Vigil proceeded him out of his office and headed down the hall to the rooms where the clerks ran the Patrician’s extensive spy network. Drumknott checked that his dark brown waistcoat and black overcoat were neat, then strode into the Patrician’s office with an air of professional urgency.
Candlelight gleamed from several candelabra. Lord Vetinari stood at the windows as if he could see through the fog. His lordship didn’t use a valet or other help, but there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen on his black clothes or a hair out of place. The shadows that survived the candlelight clung to his lordship’s long coat like spirits coming to heel.
“Ah, Drumknott.”
“Good morning, my lord.” Drumknott stopped next to the desk.
“Any pressing matters arise overnight?”
“No, my lord. The latest reports say all is well with Commander Vimes.”
Lord Vetinari’s shoulders visibly relaxed, but he half-turned and gave Drumknott a sharp, disapproving look.
“They tell me the city has been quiet all night, my lord,” Drumknott amended in his perfect deferential tone.
“Ankh-Morpork, quiet?” The Patrician returned his gaze to the window and lifted a hand to his chin. “The way a forest suddenly goes quiet, perhaps. What is that saying about shoes?”
Drumknott dug around in his mind for a relevant shoe reference. “‘Wait for the other shoe to drop,’ my lord.”
“Ah, yes, and I suppose that is what we must do. The fog will burn off soon enough.”
“I was just starting on the overnight reports, my lord. May I send you some tea in the meantime?”
Lord Vetinari walked past Drumknott and sat at his desk. A slight unevenness to his stride suggested the weather was bothering his leg, yet another thing that was never directly spoken of in the palace. “Yes, thank you.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Drumknott.”
He froze mid-turn. “My lord?”
“You do understand about vices, do you not?” Lord Vetinari opened a large notebook and took up a pen.
“I absolutely do, my lord. No one can exploit a vice that doesn’t exist.”
“Quite so,” the Patrician said in a tone of deep finality, and began writing.
Drumknott hesitated, but it wasn’t his place to say anything else. Not that he knew what else to say.
I’d give Commander Vimes a piece of my mind if I could. With charts.
He left the room on silent footfalls despite the vibrant acoustics of the ancient, cavernous building. Such things came naturally after working for a former assassin for any length of time.
He ordered the tea. He returned to his desk. So much work to do, so much to put out of his mind to do it. He pressed a secret locking mechanism and opened the hidden drawer of his desk. For a few stolen minutes, he rapidly sketched a pained, worried face staring out at the fog.
A face no one else would ever be permitted to see.