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Havelock Vetinari had a personal tradition of visiting the cemetery of Small Gods alone, in the evening of the 25th of May, to pay his respects. He even took to the rooftops, as he had as a youth, though the specifics of their surfaces had changed in the intervening years. Thirty years ago, Vetinari had been shorter, and slighter, but he made a point of never falling out of practice. His footfalls silent, his figure concealed, Vetinari made his way over wood, thatch, and stone to Small Gods’ Cemetery.
Before dropping out of a willing tree and onto soft cemetery earth, Vetinari heard the telltale sounds. Vimes was here. And he was fighting someone.
It was a street fight: nasty, brutish, and direct. Vetinari heard the crunch of a dislocated kneecap. He could make out what could very well be the sound of snarling.
He supposed there was skill to this type of fighting. No finesse, no style , but one’s instincts had to be sharp. One’s feet had to be quick.
Vetinari could easily have snapped the opponent’s other kneecap. Likely without detection. But Vimes would not have appreciated the assistance. Better to see this play out.
He took, instead, a moment to feel proud of himself for what Vimes had become. Look at that tiger go! Did you know what he was like when I found him? Vetinari smirked at the memory. In another life, I could have tamed lions for sport.
“You’ve always got an extra knife, Carcer,” growled Vimes in the darkness beyond.
Carcer. The criminal element Vimes had been chasing, and— the same name of the Sergeant from Cable Street, so many years ago. Vetinari knew it was unlike himself to miss even the most inconsequential coincidence, so why hadn’t he thought of it until now?
And this man was of such similar height, and gait –
“Whoops, sorry,” Carcer said to Vimes, clearly not sorry. “I walked over your grave there. No offense meant, eh?”
The pieces snapped into place. Not the curved, forgiving edges of a jigsaw puzzle, but the sharp, splintered edges of a pane of glass that had never meant to become whole again.
In a city where magic was not exactly commonplace, but definitely extant, one could not exclude certain possibilities. Vimes and Carcer had fought at the University. Time, and reality itself, were known to go a bit strange around those parts. And didn’t Vimes, at his present age, bear a striking resemblance to –
He hadn’t thought of Carcer in the last thirty years because those memories were new .
It was a hypothesis. He would have Vimes verify it.
Havelock’s focus turned back to the fight.
Oh. Oh . Was Vimes about to run Carcer through with a sword? Like a madman vigilante? This was riveting.
Vimes, seemingly recognizing that he was not a madman vigilante, dropped the sword.
Ah, well. It was for the best, really. If the tiger were truly off-leash, he would eventually have to be dealt with , and Vetinari rather enjoyed him intact.
Vimes was breaking his opponent’s fingers now. Which, while somewhat unsporting, did seem a good defense against stabbing. He would have spotted the additional knife several moves earlier, but that was Vimes for you.
Vimes was escalating from whispered threat to pronouncements of justice as he bound Carcer with his own sleeves.
“The machine ain’t broken, Carcer,” Vimes said darkly. “The machine is waiting for you. The city will kill you dead. The proper wheels’ll turn. It’ll be fair, I’ll make sure of that. Afterward you won’t be able to say you didn’t have a fair trial. Won’t be able to say a thing, haha. I’ll see to that, too…”
Vetinari stepped forward. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Vimes startled, grabbed his sword, looked for him. “How long were you there?”
“Oh, some little while,” he answered. Don’t you worry, Vimes. “Like you, I prefer to come alone and…contemplate.”
“You were very quiet!”
Come now, Vimes. Who do you think you are talking to?
“And you heard –?” Vimes asked, still startled.
“A very neat arrest,” Vetinari finished. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
Oh, Vimes thought he was congratulating him on the arrest. “On the birth of your son, I meant,” Vetinari clarified.
See? Vetinari kept up with personal details. He was a caring sort. Caring enough that he wasn’t going to bring up the likely legacy of the Mad Duke of Ankh, gallivanting nude around the city earlier that day. There had surely been good reason, and Vimes didn’t need to hear that there would one day likely be a children’s song about it.
Vimes fumbled through his thanks. “But this,” he said, slinging a moaning Carcer awkwardly over his shoulders, “is going back to Pseudopolis Yard right now .”
Ah, Pseudopolis Yard was a decent-length walk. They would have some opportunity to chat. Vetinari noticed that he was inordinately pleased about the chance to keep Vimes nearby. Relieved, even.
But then, he had a hypothesis to confirm.
“You know,” Vetinari said aloud, “it has often crossed my mind that those men deserve a proper memorial of some sort.”
Vimes was noncommittal, but talking. They echoed each other in vague tones.
“Perhaps a tableau in bronze? All seven of them raising the flag, perhaps?” said Vimes.
Vetinari was nearly sure Vimes was baiting him, now. “Bronze, yes.”
“Really? And some sort of inspiring slogan?” said Vimes.
Press him . “Yes, indeed. Something like, perhaps, ‘They Did The Job They Had To Do’?”
“
No
.” Vimes had stopped walking, and was plainly furious. “How dare you? How
dare
you! At this time! In this place! They did the job they
didn’t
have to do, and they died doing it, and you can’t give them anything. Do you understand?”
Vetinari wondered, between the outraged syllables, whether Vimes was going to lay hands on him. How exciting.
But no, Vimes was just plunging a finger downward in emphasis. “They fought for those who’d been abandoned, they fought for one another, and they were betrayed. Men like them always are. What good would a statue be? It’d just inspire new fools to believe they’re going to be heroes. They wouldn’t want that. Just let them be. Forever .”
It did give Havelock a little thrill, to be the object of such vehement attention. But no matter. They continued their walk.
So that was almost as good as confirmation, as well. Had Vimes just recently revisited battle – as Keel, no less, who had done a great deal of leadership and fighting, if he had just seen his men on the barricade fall, well, that would be reason to be a bit…emotional about it.
And you can’t give them anything, Vimes had said. Well, Vimes was wrong about that. Vetinari gave it a long moment.
“Happily, it appears the new deacon at the temple has suddenly heard the call.” See? I did my good deed for the day. I convinced the deacon of the Temple of Small Gods that he had more important duties to attend to than moving the bones of our unsung heroes. The bones would remain as minimally disturbed as they already were, and the deacon would be on the other side of the world.
Vimes dropped the body he was carrying. Carcer grunted, and Vimes didn’t seem to notice. He was glaring at Vetinari instead, eyes burning with accusal. “You knew? You bloody well
knew
, didn’t you?”
Ah, here it was. The intimacy of an unspoken truth.
I was the man in that battle. I traveled through bloody
time
. I was flung into the role, like so many roles, against my will. But out of necessity, I did my part.
“Not until, oh, one second ago,” Vetinari said, truthfully. He wanted to drop pretense, at least a bit.
I was there too, you know. Perhaps you didn’t see then, but I’d like you to, now.
“As one man to another, Commander, I must ask you: did you ever wonder why I wore the lilac?”
“Yeah, I wondered,” said Vimes.
“But you never asked.”
I would have liked to tell you
.
“No, I never asked,” said Vimes shortly. “It’s a flower. Anyone can wear a flower.”
So grumpy, Vimes.
“At this time? In this place?”
I know you’re curious.
“Tell me, then.”
Vetinari hadn’t spoken of this to anyone in decades. And even then, just to his Aunt, who, for all her brilliance, was now deceased.
“I was sent on an urgent errand, to save the life of a man. An unusual errand for an Assassin, although –” yes, good, Vimes, I shot the crossbow-wielder on your roof. An inspired guess, Commander.
“But now I was fighting time,” Vetinari continued. “The streets were blocked. Chaos and confusion were everywhere, and it wasn’t as if I even knew where he could be found. In the end, I took to the rooftops. And thus I came at last to Cable Street, where there was a different sort of confusion.”
“Tell me what you saw,” said Vimes. So demanding, Commander .
“I saw a man called Carcer…vanish. And I saw a man called John Keel die. At least, I saw him dead.”
“Really,” said Vimes.
Vetinari hadn’t even told his Aunt many of the details. “I joined the fight. I snatched up a lilac bloom from a fallen man and, I have to say, held it in my mouth. I’d like to think I made some difference; I certainly killed four men, although I take no particular pride in that. They were thugs, bullies. No real skill.”
He had thought this in the arrogance of youth, but then again, his opinion hadn’t changed. But he and Vimes had this in common, no? Wanting to believe they made some difference. Believing that said thugs deserved it.
“Besides, their leader had apparently fled —“ or disappeared, via well-timed magic — “and what morale they had had gone with him. The men with the lilac, I have to say, fought like tigers. Not skillfully, I’ll admit, but when they saw that their leader was down they took the other side to pieces. Astonishing.”
I admire their tenacity. And yours.
“And then, afterward, I took a look at John Keel. It was John Keel. How could there be any question about that? Blood on him, of course. There was blood everywhere. His wounds looked somewhat old, I thought. And death, as we know, changes people. Yet I remember wondering: this much?”
No response from Vimes. That was interesting. Had there been some business with the corpse? Clearly, a wizard did it. He would have to ask them how it had been done [1].
“So I put it down as half a mystery and today…Sergeant…we find the other half of the mystery.”
Vimes was not appreciating this as much as he was. He wanted to know more about Vimes’ experience, if he could.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how alike men can be? I can imagine that even your Sergeant Colon would not realize anything. After all, he saw Keel die and he watched you grow up—”
“Where is this leading?” Vimes demanded.
“Nowhere, Commander. What could I prove? And to what end would I prove it?”
“Then I’m saying nothing .”
“I cannot imagine what you could say,” said Vetinari. “No. I agree. Let us leave the dead alone. But for you, Commander, as a little gift on the occasion of the birth of—”
“There’s nothing I want,” said Vimes quickly. “You can’t promote me any further. There’s nothing left to bribe me with. I’ve got more than I deserve. The Watch is working well. We don’t even need a new bloody dartboard—”
No, silly man, this isn't like when I gave you that sedan chair because I know you prefer to walk. Which was amusing, by the way. Or the supposed torture of being called Duke, which is again, very funny. I'm being genuine, can't you see?
“In memory of the late John Keel—”
“I warned you—” Vimes started.
Down, tiger.
“—I can give you back Treacle Mine Road,” Vetinari finished.
Silence. Good.
Oh, he wanted to talk logistics. Those would be fine.
“The stable’s still there, and the old mining tower. Stout stone walls all around. It could all be put back, Commander. In memory of John Keel, a man who in a few short days changed the lives of many and, perhaps, saved some sanity in a mad world.”
You did well, Commander.
“Why, in a few months you could light the lamp over the door…”
See what I did there?
“We could do with the space, it’s true,” Vimes conceded with some effort.
“I can see you like the sound of it already,” said Vetinari. “And if you care to come along to my office tomorrow, we could –”
Plan?
Vetinari wondered.
With a side of catching up, for old times’ sake?
Vimes replied sharply that Carcer’s trial was tomorrow. Of course it was.
“Well, then, afterward we could –”
What?
Vetinari wondered.
Have tea? Because you had your comrades-in-arms, and I was alone?
“Afterward I’m going home to my family for a while,” said Vimes, firmly.
Of course. The tiger had a cub.
“Good! Well said,” Vetinari said, automatically, without engaging his mind terribly much. He complimented Keel-Vimes again, and left in one swift movement. Vimes was preoccupied with the criminal anyway. Vimes would not appreciate his swift departure, and it would likely take him several moments to notice he was gone.
He returned to the silent rooftop. Havelock wondered what it was he had been trying to do. It had at once been too much and not enough. What he wanted was to shorten the tether between him and Vimes. Which was useful, wasn’t it? Not just an…idle want.
But didn’t this always happen, with Vimes? Vimes had taken an impromptu honeymoon following his excursion in Ü berwald, so Vetinari hadn’t had the chance to suss out what he’d truly wanted to know –
Did Lady Margolotta inquire about me?
And what else had he wanted to say, here? Do you want to know what else happened? Because nearly everyone else who knew, who really knew, is dead.
He imagined that he could have had tea. Vimes would be nervously seeking an ulterior motive, which was reasonable, but Vetinari would simply tell him that he liked tea, and had few opportunities for trusted company. Look, they could each pour a cup from the same pot, if you were worried about that.
Blast it , Vimes would realize. I don’t trust you, but you do trust me.
He could, self-indulgently, drop the hint that Lord Winder was never stabbed at all.
“How do you know?” Vimes would demand. “Were you there?”
Vetinari would simply look back at him, and Vimes would know.
“You
were
there! But how –”
“Lord Winder was frightened to death,” Vetinari would casually explain. “That is, he was a deeply paranoid man, and halfway there already.”
“But if Sybil and I were bloody sixteen then, you were –”
“One very studious preparatory student at the Assassins School. With some…undisclosed extracurricular activities.”
“But you put Snapcase in power.”
“We – for a very broad definition of ‘we’ – felt it the best option at the time. We did not have the opportunity you did, of thirty years of hindsight.”
“Would you have done it differently?”
And Vetinari would say the thing that he very rarely ever said. “I don’t know.”
Could they have done differently? Would history have allowed it? Didn’t he, and his – allies? – manipulate the subtle skeins of history, to their own benefit, often and quite well? Wouldn’t those movements have ripples of unforeseen impact? Vetinari preferred to see himself as a conductor, rather than one lone player in an orchestra.
(A violin, obviously.)
Vetinari was returning to the palace. If he wanted to talk to someone now, there was Leonard – but Leonard not only didn’t understand politics, he found violence off-putting. Leonard was likely to be deeply unsympathetic to remembrances of battle.
He returned to his quarters (down the roof, through a window, invisibly past his own guards) for one of the 15-minute catnaps he and Leonardo had devised [2].
He fell asleep immediately, purposefully and unquestionably alone.
The Discworld turned against the glittering backdrop of space, spinning very gently on the backs of four giant elephants that perched on the shell of Great A’Tuin the star turtle. Continents drifted slowly past, topped by weather systems that themselves turned gently against the flow, like waltzers spinning counter to the whirl of the dance. A billion tons of geography rolled slowly through the sky[3].
And somewhere in the multiverse, a reader read the phrase:
poor little meow meow Havelock Vetinari
Footnotes
1. One week later, having encountered pure incomprehension from Ridcully, and having made multiple attempts to extract information from Ponder Stibbons (who was very good at going on tangents about how history theoretically worked, but was terrible at taking a hint, and even worse at giving a subtle hint back to merely confirm Vetinari’s suspicions, and besides was always running away to attend to some trouble or another) Vetinari gave up. Clearly, a wizard did it.↩
2. On Roundworld, Da Vinci supposedly managed 15-20 minute increments of polyphasic sleep. This is probably horseshit, but it’s a satisfying answer to “doesn’t Vetinari ever sleep?”↩
3. This paragraph is lifted directly from within the first five pages of Feet of Clay. While we’re at it, all quoted dialogue up until Vetinari’s departure is straight from Night Watch, with some summarizing / edits.↩