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For the first second or so after Vetinari was shot, he felt nothing.
In retrospect, Vetinari would eventually realise, seeing four Watchmen – one of them big enough to count as an additional three Watchmen – running towards him at top speed with expressions of abject terror should have been a giveaway that something was horribly, horribly wrong. Possibly even a sign to stay in the carriage, preferably with the doors closed and, as an extra measure, his body as far away from them as it could realistically be in such an enclosed space, and preferably moving very fast as far away as possible.
In the moment, however, Vetinari did not have the benefit of hindsight. He did not, it would appear, even have the benefit of foresight, or indeed peripheral vision. Instead, the thing that saved his life was the sheer dumb luck of standing up at the right moment.
And, of course, the body of Corporal Carrot.
He didn’t feel the bullet enter his leg. The first sensation he experienced after he heard the ‘bang’ was of a strange pressure in his thigh, slightly warm, as if being squeezed by a pair of strong hands. Then there was the weight of Carrot’s body over his chest as he barrelled into Vetinari, and the gasp of pain by his ear which accompanied the second shot. Everything seemed to slow down for a second, as both he and Carrot tumbled backwards across the plush seats of the carriage. Everything floated, as if in a dream.
And then the pain started.
If he was asked, Vetinari would describe the sensation as something akin to being struck incredibly hard with a white-hot hammer. His eyes screwed up instinctively, his mind recoiling from the pain, retreating far into his head where his physical senses could not follow. In the distance (or at least it felt distant in comparison), he was dimly aware of a chorus of shouts, alongside yet more explosions, though they were mostly drowned out by the increasing hum of blood rushing in his ears.
In an instant, the world went from unreal to painfully, terrifyingly focused on a single point on Lord Vetinari’s thigh. Vetinari clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
Somewhere in the outside world, the air shifted.
“Good morning, your lordship,” a disturbingly enthusiastic voice near his ear said. Fabric rustled against Vetinari’s arm, and the voice sounded further away. “Got a light?”
The rocking of the coach as the owner of the voice shifted their weight sent additional pinpricks of gut-twisting agony shooting down the Patrician’s leg and up his hip. Vetinari opened his eyes, with some difficulty, and tried to focus them.
“Ah, Captain Vimes.” His voice sounded far more level than he felt. With his eyes open, he was suddenly aware that the world seemed to be spinning nauseatingly on its axis. He couldn't think properly. “And what happens now?”
Through his swimming vision, Vetinari could have sworn that Vimes was grinning. “We wait for one more shot,” the Captain said, still unsettlingly cheerful. “And then we run for proper cover.”
Vetinari looked down at his leg, doubtfully. Blood was pooling below him, seeping into the carriage seats and sticking to the torn fabric of his trousers. It still seemed to be gushing from the open wound, which he elected not to look too closely at, lest the nausea get the better of him.
“I appear…” he swallowed. “To be losing a lot of blood.”
“Who would have thought you had it in you,” Vimes said flatly, then turned his attention to Corporal Carrot. Vetinari ignored the jab, breathing shakily through his nose.
Now that he wasn't being expected to respond to external stimuli, the Patrician forced himself to take stock of his situation. Pain radiated from his left thigh; a burning pain, as if he had been stabbed by a poker pulled directly from a roaring fire. There was too much blood to tell exactly how deep the wound was, but purely by feeling, he would guess that his muscle had been torn at least, and the bone might have been punctured as well, though he couldn’t be sure. The heat seemed to spread out from the impact point, making his entire body feel warm and feverish. It was already difficult to tell how much of the dampness pooling on his skin was blood, and how much was sweat.
Still, there was no sense in simply waiting here for another shot to finish the job. Experimentally, he tried to move his leg. The moment he did, lightning streaks of burning agony exploded out in all directions, making his fingers and toes go numb. A wave of nausea came crashing over Vetinari as black spots materialised in his vision and he felt his face contort involuntarily.
Right. Walking, at least for now, was not going to be an option.
Vetinari glanced towards the open door of the coach. The Captain was still there, silhouetted against the sky as he leaned out, manic with adrenaline, and barked orders at his men. All things considered, Vimes didn’t seem a terrible option for alternative transportation. Not that he had much choice in any case.
“Vimes,” the Patrician croaked. His breathing, he noticed, was becoming far shallower, making his voice less reliable.
The Captain whipped around, as if woken from a trance. There was a second’s pause as he took in Vetinari’s form, trembling, clammy, and pale(r than usual) as he was sure it was. Vimes’s face hardened in grim understanding.
To his credit, the Captain said nothing. Instead, he simply swung the Patrician heavily onto his shoulder with surprising strength and deftness, just in time for the Gonne’s final shot to ring out against the pavement. Then, he started running.
Vetinari’s body jolted as he was swept upwards, and he choked back the urge to vomit over Vimes’s coat as a fresh bout of black dots took up a synchronised swimming routine throughout his vision. Vetinari closed his eyes. Each individual step was excruciating.
He elected to focus on his breathing – in for two, out for four, in for two. Ignore the shouting, and the way your leg feels like it’s being held together by rapidly melting rubber. Breathe in.
When the rain started falling on his back and neck, the cold water was almost a relief in comparison to the inferno that had taken up residence in his central nervous system.
Vimes stopped running, and the rush of blood in Vetinari’s ears subsided enough for him to be dimly aware of the conversation around him.
“Hell’s bells! What did that to his leg?” That was Archchancellor Ridcully.
Vetinari groaned internally. Somehow, he had been relatively accepting of being seen by the likes of Vimes in a moment of temporary inconvenience. The other Watchmen he was less sure about, but many of them were in the same position that he was, also dealing with the consequences of a shot from the Gonne. Ridcully, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.
There were certain types of weakness which Vetinari simply could not afford to show in front of people whose respect he relied on. His leg may be in tatters, but that wouldn’t stop him from saving face.
“That’s the Gonne for you! Sort him out! And Corporal Carrot too!” Vimes’s voice rang out uncomfortably close to his ear.
The Patrician forced his eyes open, ignoring the way his head swam, and gritted his teeth.
“There’s no need,” he attempted a smile, using it to disguise the wince as he slid himself off Vimes’s shoulder. “It’s just a flesh–”
The second Vetinari hit the floor, his leg crumpled under him. His breath hitched involuntarily as he fell ungracefully to the floor. He just barely had the presence of mind to angle his fall so that his other leg would take the brunt of the impact, sending another sickening jolt up his spinal column – but at least not directly through the wound.
For a moment, he caught a glimpse of an expression of shock on Vimes’s face which made his insides flip with dread. However, it was brief enough that Vetinari almost thought he had imagined it, and Vimes turned his attention back to his job. Ridcully crouched down beside the Patrician, who now found himself sitting in an undignified spread-eagle on the cobbles by the open doors of the Great Hall.
Vetinari tried to give the wizard a bemused look, but it came out more like a pleading one. The Archchancellor for once seemed to see the gravity of the situation, and helped him into a more dignified sitting position.
“I say, you really have got yourself into a bother this time, Havelock,” Ridcully said, not quite disguising the concern in his voice beneath his joviality. Momentarily, Vetinari was immensely grateful for the system of begrudging acceptance that he has cultivated. For now, he knew that he was in relatively safe hands; the Archchancellor would find his accidental death to be woefully inconvenient.
Vetinari managed a noise which sounded vaguely like an affirmative “Mmm,” and closed his eyes again, trying to will his heart-rate back to a more reasonable level – or at least one he wouldn’t be able to feel in his scalp. Clearly realising that the Patrician wasn’t in a conversational mood, Ridcully busied himself preparing some kind of magical draught, satisfying his social tendencies by making the occasional nervous joke in Vetinari’s general direction.
Now that the bullet-wound wasn’t being jolted around so much, the pain seemed to have left behind the form of white-hot lightning, and had instead settled into something duller and deeper. Instead of radiating out in sparks, it seemed to permeate throughout Vetinari’s skeleton, making his teeth feel vaguely as if they were vibrating in his jaw.
Vetinari could feel consciousness slipping further out of his control by the second. His body was screaming at him to black out, and allow his exhausted mind some kind of relief from the agonising pain. Congealed blood oozed down the insides of his thighs. Around the Great Hall, various Watchmen and other bystanders were milling around him, many of them speaking in hushed tones.
No. There would be time to rest later. Fainting now was simply not an option.
First, Vetinari tried counting to ten in his head, and then backwards again. When this didn’t work, he simply tried counting the seconds. Staying conscious for more than a single instant sounded like an impossible goal, so he narrowed the horizon.
Just keep yourself awake for one second. Good. Well done. Now let’s try the next one. Capital! Don’t worry about the minutes, or the hours. Just breathe for another second. That was easy, wasn't it? Now, do it again.
Vetinari was dimly aware of the fact that every living person who had experienced this specific kind of pain was currently in the room with him. The rest were dead.
Ridcully bustled over, and Vetinari opened his eyes. The wizard was carrying a bottle of something purple and faintly luminescent.
“Here we are!” Ridcully boomed. “Come on, drink up, there's a good chap!”
Vetinari’s hands were clumsy and tremorous, but he managed to take the bottle without incident. He eyed it suspiciously.
“What is this, exactly?”
“Oh, it’s a marvellous remedy,” the wizard said, proudly. “It will do you a world of good, I can assure you.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow weakly, but simply didn’t have the energy to argue. Every nerve in his body was complaining far too much for him to fight back. Besides, as much as he loathed the prospect of entering an altered and potentially vulnerable mental state in such a public setting, it seemed extremely unlikely that any magic or drug could possibly make him any more useless than he already was. He needed all the help he could get.
That, and a magical cure would, with any luck, also prevent the wound from becoming infected and causing even bigger problems in future. Ridcully wanted him alive, after all.
The Patrician sighed, and drank it slowly. The liquid tasted… fine. At the very least, it didn’t seem to make the nausea any worse. The wizard made encouraging noises at him until he had finished the bottle.
“Good man. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.” The Archchancellor beamed, then turned his attention to the injured Watchmen.
Vetinari nodded, and tried again to focus on his breathing. Now that the adrenaline from the initial excitement was beginning to dissipate, he could feel his limbs weakening, and his entire body was beginning to shiver. It was an odd sensation: most of his muscles were freezing cold, except for his leg, which still felt like it was on fire.
In for two. Out for four.
After a few minutes of this, it became abundantly clear that whatever Ridcully had given him was strong stuff. The Patrician’s fingers were beginning to tingle pleasantly, which was certainly a positive change when compared to the nerve-splitting agony of the bullet wound. Finally, he allowed himself to look blurrily around at the Watchmen and other citizens watching him from both inside and outside of the Hall.
His head swam, but he pushed his shoulders back against the wall, forcing himself to stay upright through sheer force of will. Despite the fogginess, he knew it was a good idea to be seen to be alive. It was important to ensure that rumours of the death of the Patrician were as exaggerated as possible.
Vetinari found himself searching the Hall around for Captain Vimes. He wanted to… thank him, or something. He had saved his life, after all. Carrying him all the way from the carriage in those capable arms of his.
To his right, Vetinari was vaguely aware of a dark shape sidling towards him.
“How do you feel, your lordship?”
Vetinari turned his head, with some difficulty. The… man? in front of him was out of focus, but from what he could see, he looked disturbingly reminiscent of a shaved chimpanzee stuffed into an ill-fitting Watchman’s uniform.
“Who are you?” He asked, wondering whether the draught Ridcully had given him was strong enough to induce hallucinations.
“Corporal Nobbs, sir!” The thing saluted.
“Do we employ you?”
“Yessir!”
“Ah,” Vetinari blinked muzzily, then hazarded a guess, largely based on size. “You’re the dwarf, are you?”
“Nossir. That was the late Cuddy, sir! I’m one of the human beings, sir!”
“You’re not employed as the result of any… special hiring procedures?”
“Nossir.”
“My word,” Vetinari said, because he couldn’t find anything else appropriate in his pain- and drug-addled mind. He slumped further down the wall. Once again, the room seemed to spin unpleasantly around him.
‘Corporal Nobbs’ was now talking to another of the Watchmen, so Vetinari took the opportunity to test his injured leg again, shifting experimentally. It sent a jolt of pain through him, though this time not an unbearable one.
He nodded to himself, and glanced around. Whilst he was no longer at risk of blacking out from the pain, the magical draught was making it increasingly difficult to keep himself awake, so he sought some kind of distraction to keep his mind present and occupied. Nobbs and his comrade seemed to be looking at him, so he gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he may have overshot into manic grin territory. Then he looked blearily past them, searching for something to focus on.
“Still alright, your lordship?” The Corporal asked, with some concern.
Vetinari tried to focus on a blurry, grey, vaguely troll-shaped lump on the far side of the room. “Who’s that gentleman?”
“That’s Detritus the troll, sir.”
Vetinari squinted at him. From what he could tell, the troll was hunched over, as if deep in thought. “Why is he sitting like that?”
“He’s thinking, sir.”
“He hasn’t moved for some time.” Despite being slightly out-of-sorts, Vetinari was sure he would have noticed something of that size moving if it had done so in the past half hour. It would have shook the ground.
“He thinks slow, sir.” Nobbs said, as the troll stood up, purposefully. Then, with some apprehension, he added, “But deep, sometimes.”
The two Watchmen rushed off to intercept the troll. Vetinari watched them go, observing helplessly as his presence of mind slipped further and further away. Though, at this point, he wasn’t sure that there was much of a reason not to just let it go. Nobody’s attention was on him now, he was sure; there was far too much excitement around for that. Besides, whatever happened, the Patrician felt unusually sure that, despite everything, Vimes would be able to sort it.
Once again, as his eyes drifted shut of their own accord, Vetinari found himself wishing that the Captain would return with a reassuring report. The man was so reliable, both in his uncanny ability to act in the most useful way possible, and to do so in the most infuriating fashion imaginable. And needling him was such a source of entertainment for the Patrician these days – he would have no problem staying conscious, with Vimes around to toy with.
Vetinari’s leg twinged, and he wondered where the Gonne had got to. It seemed a shame, wasting so many good Watchmen. From what he had gathered, at least one had been killed (possibly more by now), and two more had been hit alongside himself. He really should thank Corporal Carrot…
Oh, well. Wherever the Gonne was, it would be found and neutralised soon enough. That was what the Watch always did, these days.
This was the Patrician’s last thought before slipped into a semi-conscious state of magic-induced oblivion, head lolling back against the stone wall of the Great Hall.