Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dear Sybil,

Samuel Vimes glowered down at the words, sitting stark and black on the page. The words stared accusingly back up.

It was a good start, wasn’t it? That’s how people write letters – dear so-and-so, with the return address printed neatly in the top right corner, and the date, so that you could establish at a glance how annoyed you could reasonably be with bloody Lipwig for it being late. This letter wasn’t going by the usual post, of course, but the principle of the thing was sound. He’d ticked all the usual boxes.

Vimes scratched his chin idly with the hand holding the pen, absently filling in the five o’clock shadow at the corner of his jaw with a smudge of ink. Dearest Sybil? No, he never said that. She’d think something awful had happened to him, or that he’d started pressuring underlings into writing his personal correspondence. Dear it was.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to write the letter. He did, in fact, have half a dozen other things of much more pressing importance that very many people would doubtless rather he got on with instead, such as consulting with Zlobenian high command and reading the countless dossiers which had already begun to pile up on his desk and render the whole thing comfortingly familiar to his desk at home. It was not, really, a priority to write a letter to the woman who had only yesterday, in the coldest and smallest hours of the morning, tugged his cloak tighter about him, kissed him smartly, and put him on a broomstick to end up out here, in a draughty turret of a freezing castle miles from anywhere sane.¹

The problem was that Sybil was better at this sort of thing than he was. Sybil undertook correspondence as something akin to a full-time profession; given that it was some kind of insult to send a reply shorter than the letter received, she frequently wrote short novellas on the subject of dragons and servants and whether or not one had been singed by the other.² She could fill pages when she had nothing at all to say to the letter’s recipient, and even when she had no desire to ever speak to that person again – but it was in this way that aristocratic relationships were maintained and diplomacy and peace reigned over the Disc, etcetera etcetera, and frankly if Vimes could have avoided being here in the middle of this godsforsaken war by having a few more Lady Sybils about the place writing letters, then so much the better.³

But he didn’t have that skill, given how a very long letter with nothing actually in it would probably have made Fred Colon cry, and so he wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed from here. He didn’t have anything to say to Sybil, except that he has arrived safely and that this is the address to which she ought to send any important letters and forgotten socks, and in truth just the act of sending the letter with its address in the top right corner would do that much. He could really send a pigeon, or possibly a clacks if they got the towers up again soon, to say he’d made it, and she could return things to him by clearly labelling things with his name and posting it in the right general direction – it was hardly as though there were that many Dukes of Ankh knocking about in these parts.

So he’d got nothing to say. But it’s to Sybil that he wanted to say that nothing, so here they were.

I have arrived safely in Zlobenia. The rooms are good enough, and the lads have settled in well. It is rather cold, but I am told that this is usual for the time of year and that it will warm up in a few months.

Vimes tapped his finger against the desk and breathed out hard through his nose. Anyone expecting him to sit out here doing sod all for the next few months had better have brought appropriate restraining devices. He’d nearly thumped the poor aide who’d told him about summer in such worried, cheerful tones.

I hope Young Sam is keeping well.

He paused again and studied that phrase. It was a ridiculous one, really – of course he hoped his son hadn’t caught some horrifying ailment in the thirty hours since he saw the boy last, of course he hoped that this state of affairs would continue, and preferably forever. But it was difficult to ask after a baby whose primary concerns, presently, were what that shiny thing is, what that soft thing is, and whether his entire foot can be persuaded into his mouth. However, these were, in their way, things in which Vimes himself was also interested because his son was, so there it was. Most of what he had to contribute to their son’s life at this stage consisted of Being There, and this was hard to do in a letter.

Not much has happened so far. I have spoken to the Prince briefly but I can tell you he is a big fan of the city and how we do things, I have formed an opinion of him already.

That ought to give Sybil a laugh, if nothing else.

He has many advisors but no Watch. I asked him, will he set one up, and he replied, in your image. I offered to send some Sammies, but he said, after the war.

He’d only send one of his officers if they had already proven themself to be stern, ruthless, and so straight you could use ‘em as a ruler, and he had suspected that Prince Heinrich knew that. The man had demurred so carefully. Vimes had added to his list for measuring Watchman candidates the ability to stand before the Patrician without quaking – a Sammy like that would sort out Zlobenia and Borogravia faster than any war.

I already have a lot to do, but I will get my head down when I can and Sgt Angua tells me you and her have had Words so do not worry on my account, I will take care of myself. Do not get cold, I know the boy forgets to light the fire in our room when I am not home.

He put his pen down for a moment and stares at the blank space on the page. It was hard to say what he wanted to say, which was: be well and safe and warm at all times, even when I am not there to ensure it. He couldn’t say that sort of thing very well in person, let alone on a page where any old sod might crack the seal and take a peak – although this letter was due to be tucked in amongst official dispatches of grave importance and secrecy, so the likelihood of that happening and the old sod keeping their hand was significantly lower than usual. He always had this problem. Most of the time, it was enough to know that Sybil loved him – however inexplicably – and that she knew that he loved her – much more explicably – but sometimes, it welled up inside him and got lodged, uncomfortably, somewhere behind his fourth rib. And because he never practised, relying instead on that certainty of affection, he could never let it out properly.

It hurt, sometimes. At least Sybil never minded it. At least, she never said…

There was a knock at his door. “If that letter’s to go with the coach, sir,” Angua said through the thick oak, “it needs to go now.”

Damn, Vimes thought. That feeling was still beating at him, drilling away under his diaphragm, and he had so much blank space left. Impulsively, his hand darted out to dip the ink, and then printed in his most careful handwriting:

I love you.

He stopped and looked at it for a moment. It sat there, incriminating and uncompromising. Briefly, he considered ripping it off, or scratching it out, or doing any number of things to have it not be sitting there, being honest and obvious on the pale parchment.

Then he took a deep breath, and his hand moved again, much faster, scrawling and untidy.

Yrs, Cmdr Sr Smauel Vims

He noted his inability to spell his own name rather absently, too busy viciously blotting the whole document as though it had personally offended him and burning up with mortification to do anything about it. He slotted the letter into an envelope as Angua knocked again, more urgently, and scribbled S Vimes across the face. He opened the door, passed it to Angua, and she started down the stairs at a nearly unsafe trot.

He leaned back in his seat, breathing out heavily as if he’d just run a great distance, and stared blindly at the trees outside the window, regimented and shivering. The whole place reminded him of Uberwald – inevitably, really, given the geographical proximity, general political turmoil, and extent of his ambassadorial experience – and that in turn reminded him of running through the snow in Uncle Vanya’s trousers and finding Sybil trapped with the werewolves and leaving her in the embassy, suddenly pregnant as if she hadn’t been until he knew, and alone and vulnerable and more valuable than any gold, or fat, or stupid petty war. And now he was here again, and she wasn’t – he’d used up some of his spousal supply of goodwill and put his foot down about that⁴ – only it was rather hard to remember that she was safe at home and not being held hostage somewhere, just out of his reach.

Angua appeared in the open doorway, knocking politely on the jamb. “Coach is underway, sir,” she said.

He resisted the urge to ask if she’d put anything on it for Carrot; knowing them, he’d have written her a long letter for the next coach, scarred by a long battle with a dictionary and littered with the corpses of fallen punctuation, and she would send him a pigeon every now and then to let him know she was alive, and that would be about it.

“And Prince Heinrich wants to speak with you about strategy at your earliest convenience.”

With an effort, Vimes hauled his brain back into gear, and then immediately regretted it. “Strategy? I can just about manage to break up a riot on Kingsway – I doubt it transfers.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Angua said, half-smiling. “Surely a Duke is born with that sort of experience.”

He levelled an unimpressed look at her; being similarly gilty herself, it failed to find any purchase. “The only experience I have is of barricading half a city against itself – and Reg could tell Heinrich about that just as well, since it was what killed him. No, I’ve got-” he scrabbled around wildly and came up with a fistful of folders, “-paperwork. Reading. Got to catch up on-” he squinted, “The Borogravian Turnip Harvest, May to Grune.”

Angua looked faintly horrified. “Is the Prince that bad, sir?”

“You’ve not met him?” Vimes tilted the dossier, a good inch thick and densely packed with numbers and tables, and dropped it on a tall pile of its fellows with a satisfying thump. “He may well be worse. Send Reg, with my apologies.”

“I can handle that sort, sir,” Angua said, faintly reproachfully, as if he were doubting the ability of a young, healthy adult werewolf with sufficient incentive and a good set of teeth to preserve her honour amongst blackguards.

“Diplomacy, sergeant,” he said sternly, and this time the look made her back off slightly, “means that though you can, you most certainly won’t. I don’t know what would happen to Zlobenia or Borogravia without Heinrich, but I’m not being bloody responsible for it. Send Reg to the Prince, get Swires airborne, and even if de Worde starts on about patriotic fraternity, don’t let him have more perches in the dovecot than he’s due. Especially if.”

Angua touched her fingers to her forehead in a quick salute and grinned. “Sir,” she said, pulling the door to behind her.

Vimes sat back. There! He’d done it. Nearly five minutes together, there, in which he hadn’t missed Sybil, and Young Sam, and home. Five minutes – only gods knew how many more to go.

The road home was long and barely functional, and even diplomatically important mail coaches were slow. Then there would be the turnaround time – Sybil gets the letter, puts down the baby, reads the letter, writes the reply, sends it back. Say three days travel each way, plus two for bad weather, plus another five days reading/writing/mothering time: he couldn’t expect a letter any sooner than about two weeks.

He was resigned to this. He could manage two weeks on an early-morning kiss and a stern reminder to be home safely, and soon.

It was, therefore, somewhat improbable to be holding an envelope marked only Sam a mere six days later. It almost didn’t seem allowed.

My dear Sam,

Damn! He sat heavily behind his desk, eyes glued to the paper and entirely ignoring Reg as he quietly let himself out. Sybil really was just better at letters.

The only reason the boy forgets to light the fire in our rooms is because you won’t let him do it while you’re home, as well you know. If you’d just let him do his job properly, the poor lad would be fine. Willikins, however, has had a word and I’m shoulder-training Antioches IX at the moment, who hiccups beautifully if you touch her sides and is better than any match.

Vimes settled into the warm glow of the home fires and affectionate marital chiding, and elected not to be worried about an easily startled dragon perched on the shoulder of the most important woman holding the most important baby. Sybil had always been the sort of woman to find herself very busy with an essential job requiring lots of time and attention, like having a child, and then feel the need to find something else equally exhausting to fill any spare hours. By all accounts, it was a family trait, and the Ramkins had a lineage as long as recorded time – he trusted both these facts to keep them all safe.

I’m glad to hear you’re all settled. The Times is making the whole situation sound so wretched and I hate to think of you getting cold. I’m sure you’re all making the best of it, but I’d rather have you back before the passes close over. I’m afraid I’m not used to the idea of you being stuck there much longer than that; Spring seems so far away, Sam.

Young Sam remains very well – a picture of health, the doctors tell me. He’s certainly got a healthy pair of lungs on him. I dare say Willikins is suffering somewhat, but the sleepless nights are no worse than dragon-hatching. He’s got your glower, dear, and is a constant delight. He misses his Daddy, as do we all.

Vimes stopped and took a deep breath, holding the letter with careful gentleness and staring sightless at the wall. Ankh-Morpork, suddenly, seemed a very long way away, and each mile a needle in his chest. He wanted, more than anything, to go home. To stay there. To wrap himself up in his wife and curl around their son and remain, forever, curled up in the enormous squashy armchair in front of the fire, talking about nothing at all. He wanted it so badly it hurt.

I’m sure some good Sammies would do wonders for Zlobenia. Ankh-Morpork wouldn’t be what it is today without your Watch, Sam, and I’m sure the Prince knows it.

Vimes managed a wet little snort. He was sure, too. It was why the Prince disliked him so much, and very probably why Vetinari had sent him in the first place, and Sybil knew it.

I don’t know very much about the country; there were two girls from Zlobenia at school, but they were quiet little things and largely trailed around after Serafine. I’m afraid I never knew them very well.

He raised an eyebrow. That, alone, was almost impressive; Sybil got to know everyone.

I read about the Prince in the papers. I know I’m not supposed to root for the Borogravians, Sam, but they are making it difficult. It’s the same all over the city; we do like an underdog. Especially Even if the Prince does like Ankh-Morpork so much.

Sam grinned, sharp and delighted, and rubbed briefly at his eyes. Sybil had a real knack for the plausibly polite, and sometimes had to step on his foot at important dinners to make sure he didn’t laugh about it. He missed her more than anything.

The rest of the letter was long and charmingly rambling, detailing the latest gossip and the health of the dragons and anything else that had come to her as she was writing, and Sam sank into it like a hot bath at the end of a horrible day. He devoured it voraciously – every trace of normal life, of home, and of her. The words didn’t matter – it was enough that she had written them in her neat and elegant but legible hand, that she had taken the time to think of him, and that she had found something to say just because she wanted to say it to him. It was the comforting bustle of being in the kitchen with her as she burned dinner, or fetching and carrying at her direction in the dragon shed, or being tucked into her side in front of the fire as she knitted something which would ultimately, regardless of how it had begun, probably end up as a scarf wound round his neck.

It felt like home.

And there, at the end of the letter, Sybil had made a little blank space of the page and written in it, carefully and deliberately so that it would stand out:

I love you too, dear. Come home soon.

Love,

Sybil

It was very difficult, when he found that, to look anywhere else. Or to do anything at all except stare at it, and want very much to be wherever she was.

Sam was still staring at the paper when Angua knocked politely at the door and let herself in without waiting for an answer. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” she said briskly, “but I’d like a word before I head out again and it’s easier to move at dusk.”

Commander Vimes looked up, folding the letter but not putting it down. “I didn’t know you were back. I thought Swires was going to pass messages, to save your feet. Paws.”

Angua inclined her head thoughtfully and hummed agreement. “Yes, sir. I wanted to speak to you in person about this, though.” She sat in the chair opposite his desk, expression pensive and elbows propped on the chair arms with her fingers under her chin, and, fleetingly, Vimes allowed himself to entertain the possibility of disciplining an officer under his command for eating an enemy soldier whole, which was an honour he was probably alone in having.⁵ “The...squad,” she said hesitantly. “They’re...well, sir, they’re women. Women pretending to be men.”

Vimes blinked. “Really?” his mouth said, and then his brain kicked in before Angua could roll her eyes and said “No, don’t answer that, I believe you. All of them? And they’re – they’re all women, women dressed up as men, not. Not men, who, er-” He floundered around uselessly until, eventually, Angua took pity.

“It looks like it, sir. They don’t seem altogether comfortable, and one of them is definitely called Polly. It’s harder to say with the troll and the Igor, and the vampire smells so entirely of vampire that it’s difficult to be precise,⁶ but-” Angua saw Vimes’ expression of increasing bafflement and stopped.

“Ye gods,” he said, “that’s nearly as bad as we were in the early days. No offence,” he added, and Angua inclined her head graciously. It wasn’t as though she didn’t see the similarity, nor the strangeness – and besides, she liked the way Mister Vimes thought of her lance-constableship as the early days of an institution as old as the city. It was as though the Watch had been reborn with Carrot’s introduction, and through it Vimes too, and it made her an old hand, an authority which settled pleasantly on her skin like a cloak. “Well, I suppose we still beat their score with dwarves and a werewolf, though since dwarves are Abominated that does feel like winning on two fouls and a penalty.”

“The Ankh-Morpork way, sir. Besides, I don’t think there’s much about the squad that Nuggan is particularly going to enjoy.”

Vimes snorted and leant back in his chair. “A point in their favour, if nothing else is. Alright, sergeant, why did you want to tell me in person?”

Angua looked uncomfortable. “Well, sir, it isn’t just...that. I ran past the Borogravian camp, where the high command are, and it smelled...of mixed company, sir.”

“I – understand that’s not uncommon,” Vimes said, face studiously straight. “Women who – launder,” he added. He could feel the blush rising from under his collar – not for the women of negotiable affection following the army, he and Angua were both aware enough of the Seamstresses back home – but for the recollection of Sergeant Colon, in the dim mists of Sam’s youth, telling a lad yet to have an opportunity to gain experience on his own all about his youth in the army, and how to pick up camp followers, and all sorts of tricks which Sam had either never mastered or were absolute bollocks. Angua would laugh.

“And even sew,” Angua said dryly, raising an eyebrow at his discomfort, but letting it lie. “I’m aware. But I’m not sure they’d have time in the middle of a strategy meeting, or space.”

“Well, clear off the big map table-” The signalman in Vimes’ brain switched him to the right track. “You’re telling me Borogravian high command is full of-”

“No,” Angua said quickly. “I am not telling you that. To have got where they are, these people have been men for as long as they’ve...not been, or perhaps even longer. That very probably is who a lot of them are now, and that’s who they’ll stay, whatever happens. But I am telling you that a lot of Borogravian high command might relate to the squad more than they’ll admit. A lot of them, sir. It’s like the Watch in the – in the early days. The army needs men.”

Vimes considered this, turning the letter over and over in his hands. It wasn’t a point against them in his book, but it would be for the Zlobenians and also for the rest of the Borogravians if it got out. Better, really, if it didn’t. “So why are you telling me now?” he asked, watching the letter fidget between his fingers.

Angua shrugged, shaking back her hair. “Last resort weapon, I think. I’m not above a little pointed blackmail, although since we’re at war I think it’s intelligence from a spy and therefore allowable.”

Vimes pointed at her sternly. “You are not a spy, sergeant, you’re a copper, and that’s an order.” Angua touched her brow respectfully, face tipped down to show submission and also to badly hide a grin. “Besides – you don’t think the squad will make it?”

“Oh,” Angua said, “I think they’ll go all the way, sir. And maybe a bit too far.”

“Alright,” Vimes sighed, drumming his fingers on the table, “we’ll hang on to that for later. Go and see how they’re getting on, then. That’ll be all, sergeant.”

“Sir,” Angua said, getting to her feet. It was then that he noticed the bright white of the paper in her hand.

“Letter from home?” he asked, nodding at it.

Angua hummed agreement and waved the letter nonchalantly. “Carrot’s been taking newcomers to the museums again, leaving them ‘lost, four words’,” she quoted, including all grammatical idiosyncrasies and from memory, “the Alchemists’ Guild blew up again, causing no end of property damage and a small riot, and the new tea kettle in Pseudopolis Yard is building up a good flavour. It might even rival the old one.”

Vimes raised an eyebrow. “Why does the city go quiet whenever I leave?” he complained.

“I couldn’t possibly say, sir,” Angua said with a straight face. “Any news from Lady Sybil?”

Vimes unfolded the letter carefully. I love you too, dear, said Sybil’s clear, straightforward handwriting, stark and black on the page. He felt his face curve into soft, cautious little smile.

“No,” he said. “Nothing – nothing I didn’t know already.”