Part Three - Summoned

While Vimes made his way despondently back to the station house, the thief climbed inside a carriage that was waiting for him on the corner of a deserted street.

He was not alone.

‘You have it?’  said an expectant yet calm voice.  The thief produced the small sack and threw it across the carriage interior.

‘Temper temper,’ said the man sat opposite the thief, while untying the strings of the sack.  There was no small amount of self-satisfaction in his voice as he tipped the contents of the sack into his greedy hands.

The thief said nothing.

Eventually, the other occupant spoke.

‘Impressive.’  Silence followed as the prize was examined further.

‘That is all, for now,’ said the owner of the carriage.  ‘You may go.  I will call on you when you are needed next.’

Without a word, the thief exited the carriage and disappeared into the city, slamming the door behind him.  The driver of the carriage geed the horse into action and it rumbled off in the opposite direction, the paint on the livery peeling ever so slightly.

 

*           *           *

           

‘Inside job,’ said Corporal “Nobby” Nobbs, to the station in general, but mostly to his immediate superior, Sergeant Fred Colon.  ‘Gotta be.’  He waggled a grubby finger in an even grubbier ear with the air of one who has all the answers and is just begging to be asked to share them.

‘Give over, Nobby,’ said Colon, dismissively, as he made the tea.  ‘Who in their right mind would steal from Vetinari, let alone one of his own staff?’

‘Didn’t say it had to be one of his staff,’ said Nobby.  He sniffed and continued.  ‘Could have been a family member.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ scoffed Colon.  ‘Vetinari don’t have any family.’

‘Not what I…’

Nobby’s retort, and the relative quiet of Pseudopolis Yard, were abruptly broken when Commander Vimes burst in through the front door, still fuming.  He stormed past Sergeant Cheery Littlebotttom at the front desk, completely ignored Nobby and Colon, and stalked furiously into his office.  He slammed the door with a noise that reverberated through the entire station.  Even the suspect that Captain Angua had brought in for questioning was silent, afraid to say anything in case Vimes emerged from his office and tore his head off.

Vimes sat down heavily at his desk and slammed a hand on to its scarred surface.  Balled in his fist were the false beard and wig and the maddening little card that the thief had left behind.  He released them and looked at the disguise.  Anger continued to embroil him, so he stuffed the beard and wig into a desk drawer to get them out of his sight.  The card he pushed on to the spike on his desk, adding to the burgeoning pile of notes, reminders, and various things that he was supposed to remember to do.  Things to do with work, with home, with every damn thing, it seemed like.  He would examine them properly later when he had calmed down.  He would still be angry.  Crime always made him angry, but at least later it would be the measured and steady anger that would allow him to look at the case properly.  Right now, it was too hot, too wild.  Anything he did about the thief and his crime right now would be too impulsive, too sloppy.  No, he was going to catch the little toe-rag and he knew to do that he needed his wits about him.

His hand still on the desk, faint muscle memory from years past twitched along his fingers, almost sending them into the bottom drawer of his desk for the bottle of Bearhugger’s Whisky that he kept there, a holdover from his days as a roaring drunk.  He didn’t know that his wife, Lady Sybil Vimes, nee Ramkin, had secretly replaced the contents with apple juice some years before, but it didn’t matter.  Vimes had kicked the drink for the sake of his family, which now included his son, Young Sam, and that was more than enough motivation to prove to the world, and to himself, that he could stay sober.

But still he fumed.

How dare someone come into his city, commit a crime, so brazenly, and then rub it in his face so?  Vimes was going to throw the book at him.  Followed by the rest of the godsdamned library!

‘I need a smoke,’ he said to the Multiiverse at large.

Vimes reached into a different desk drawer to the one now containing apple juice and pulled out his cigar box.  Lady Sybil didn’t approve of Vimes smoking, but she reasoned that the occasional cigar was worlds better than having to have Willikins �" Sam Vimes’ gentlemen’s gentleman �" scrape her plastered husband out of this gutter or that if he was to take up the drink again.  Sybil Ramkin was from a rich enough family to have more than one wine-sodden branch to her family tree, so the cigars were tolerated in favour of the possible alternative.

Sam Vimes walked over to the window of his office and opened it.  The cold Ankh-Morpork air hit him like a slap in the face.  Even at this low temperature the air of the city was unique.  You could taste the life on it.  You could practically chew it and spit it back out.  Vimes took a deep breath and shivered involuntarily as he struck a match on the splintery window frame.  He cupped his hand around the match as he lit the cigar, just as he had done countless times before on those cold and lonely (and often whisky-soaked) Night Watch shifts.  Taking the first pull, he filled his lungs with the familiar smoke and let it sit there for a moment, tossing the spent match into the wastepaper basket in the corner.  Frowning and looking out into the city, he exhaled and sent the bluish smoke billowing out of the window, watching it mingle with his already visible breath in the steely wintry air.  Time was that Vimes smoked at his desk, or anywhere he damn well pleased, thank you so very much, but the gentle moulding that Lady Sybil had implemented to smooth some of the rougher edges that made up Sam Vimes included not smoking indoors.  It was absolutely forbidden at home, especially since the birth of Young Sam, and Lady Sybil had conceded to let him smoke at work, providing it wasn’t too many, and providing he opened a window when he did so.

Vimes stood by the window, smoking his cigar, his thoughts switching from how much he loved his good lady wife to how much he hated crime.  He ran the entire chase over and over in his head, trying to fix an image of the thief, but it was no good.  The beard and wig notwithstanding, he had just been too quick.

Too good?

No!

Vimes shuddered.  He wouldn’t allow the thought to take root.  Vimes was nothing if not proud, of his conviction as a copper, at least.  His staunch belief in right and wrong could cut diamond, and he would die before he admitted that a common criminal could get the better of him.

He would catch him.

Eventually.

Vimes’ thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knocking at his office door.  He took an irritated pull on his cigar.  He felt quite sure that the way he had stumped angrily into the office did not need the added clarification that he didn’t want to be bothered.

‘Not now,’ he said.

But the knock came again.

‘I said not now!’  Vimes turned to see Captain Carrot, looking very apologetic, opening the door slightly and snapping to attention when he caught the Commander’s glare.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but Lord Vetinari would like to see you.’

‘I bet he would,’ spat Vimes.

‘it’s about the burglary at the Palace, Sir.’

‘Yes, thank you, Captain.  I had surmised as much.’

‘Sir.’  Carrot peeled off a textbook salute.  Vimes turned back to the window and continued to smoke his cigar.  A moment of uncomfortable silence followed.  Uncomfortable for Carrot, at least.

‘Um, Sir?’

Vimes sighed and let out another plume of cigar smoke.

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘The Patrician, Sir.  He was quite insistent that you come immediately, Sir.’

‘I’m sure he was, Captain,’ said Vimes, not turning to face him.  ‘Which is why I’m going to finish this cigar and arrive at the Palace when I bloody well please.’

‘Sir.’

 

*           *           *

 

‘Sausage inna bun!  Delicious and nutritious!  Get ‘em while they’re hot!’

‘Hullo, Throat.’

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, entrepreneur extraordinaire, turned in his usual spot in Sator Square to see Commander Sam Vimes standing uncomfortably close to him.

‘Ah, Commander,’ oozed Dibbler, never one to pass up the opportunity to pitch his dubious wares.  ‘So good to see you on such a fine, brisk afternoon.  Can I interest you in a sausage inna bun?  Special Watch rates, o’course. Only a half Dollar, and that’s cutting me own throat!’

‘No, thank you,’ said Vimes, flatly.

‘Very well, very well,’ said Dibbler, reeling expertly.  No one could bounce back from rejection quite like Dibbler.  ‘Then how about…’

‘No.’

‘Then…’

‘No!’

Dibbler took in Vimes’ hardened expression and gave in.  Some people just couldn’t spot a good bargain.

‘Okay, what can I do for you?’

‘I assume you’ve heard by now what happened at the Palace earlier on?’  Vimes didn’t really need to ask.  Of course Dibbler would know.  It would be all over the city by now.  Ankh-Morpork was a veritable tinderbox for the wildfires of gossip and rumour, and, sure enough, Dibbler did not disappoint.

‘Oh yeah, talk o’the town, that is,’ said Dibbler, grinning.  ‘I hear the culprit gave you the slip good and proper.’  Dibbler chuckled for a second and then quickly stifled himself when he saw the murderous look on Vimes’ face.  He coughed and tried to look serious.  ‘And I certainly hopes you catch the miscreant.’

‘I will,’ said Vimes.

‘Stealing from the Patrician, though…’  Dibbler blew out his cheeks and shook his head.  ‘What could be worth that?’

‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Vimes.  ‘And that’s where you come in.’

Dibbler swallowed nervously.

‘Me, Commander?’

‘Yes, Throat.  You.’

‘But I was nowhere near the Palace this morning.  Ask anyone, they’ll vouch for me…’

‘Throat…’  Vimes tried to interject.

‘You can’t go around making accusations like, you know?  I got rights!’

‘Yes, you have the right to shut that trap of yours before I nail it shut, do you hear?’  Vimes was nose to nose with Dibbler now, the greasy smell of his foul sausages invading his nostrils.

Dibbler nodded, silently, never taking his bulging eyes off Vimes’.

‘Right, good.  I’m not accusing you, Throat.  If I thought you’d done this…  Well, I’d be bloody amazed at your stupidity for one, but you’d also have been in the cells before noon by now.  No, I want you to keep your ear to the ground.  I don’t know what was stolen �" I’m on my way to the Palace now to speak to the Patrician.  But, if there’s a new thief in town I want to know who he is, where he goes, who he talks to, the works.  Got it?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Dibbler, numbly.

‘Good man,’ said Vimes.  He patted Dibbler on the shoulder and turned to leave.  ‘Oh, and Throat?’

‘Yes?’

‘When I find out what’s been stolen, if I catch wind that it’s come within ten feet of those grubby mitts of yours and you don’t tell us I’ll very likely lose my temper with you.  Are we clear?’

‘Crystal, Commander.’

‘Excellent.  Have a good day, Throat.’

 

*           *           *

           

Sometime later, Vimes arrived at the Palace, and was crossing the road that ran by the main gates when he was nearly knocked down by a carriage that careened to a halt in front of him.  The two impressive horses whinnied as they were hauled back to stop, the carriage’s wheels a mere inch from Vimes’ toes.

‘What the bloody hell!’ he said, angrily.  Vimes looked up at the driver and stared, furious, into the eyes of a young man who quickly looked away under the Commander’s outraged glare.  He walked towards the driver’s box, scowling.

‘What do you think you’re playing at, sonny-Jim?’ said Vimes, as he laid a hand on the carriage and addressed the handsome young man holding the reins.  The driver pulled down his cap to shield his eyes and started to mumble something when a voice cut him off.

‘Good day, Vimes.’

No, not him, thought Vimes.

Oh gods, not him!

Vimes stepped back and took in the imposing crest on the livery on the coach that was blocking his ingress into the Palace grounds and sighed.

It was Lord Rust.

Vimes hated the nobility of Ankh-Morpork, even more so ever since he became one of them, Lady Sybil being the obvious exception (she hated most of them herself, too).  He hated their snobbishness, hated their arrogance and their stupidity, but most of all he hated the way that they all seemed to consider themselves somehow above the law.  No one was above the law, and Vimes would happily burn down the Disc’s entire aristocracy and dance around the flames in the altogether to prove that point.

Vimes sighed and stepped into view of the carriage’s window.

‘Your lordship,’ he said, woodenly.

‘Terrible business at the Palace, Vimes,’ said Rust, his vulture-like face indicating the gates to his left.  ‘When the venerable ruler of this city cannot remain safe from the reach of the petty criminal what hope have the rest of us?’

Oh, you slimy little b*****d, thought Vimes.  You and your hideously inbred cronies would sell out the Patrician for a tin Dollar tomorrow if you thought you could run the city yourselves.  Say what you wanted about the Patrician, at least he was a b*****d with only one face, and it was always the one looking at you.  Vimes didn’t have time to play Rust’s games, so he responded in official copper mode.

‘I was just on my way to the Palace to inspect the crime scene and interview Lord Vetinari.  So, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Of course.’  Lord Rust smiled; it was truly horrible.  He reached inside his immaculate topcoat and produced a small card.  ‘Do come and see me soon, Vimes.  This travesty has made me fear for my safety and the sanctity of my estate.’  Vimes took the card gingerly, like it might explode at his touch, and pocketed it.

‘I will send along one of my Captains,’ began Vimes.

‘Tut tut, Commander,’ said Rust, silkily.  ‘That really won’t do.  I extend this invitation to your good self, not one of your underlings.’  Rust said the word as if Vimes had Foul Ole Ron and his band of professional beggars working for him.  He bristled at the tone but managed to catch himself before he told the old fool where he could stick it, and at what angle.

‘I’ll see what I can do to make the time,’ said Vimes, hoping to all the gods on the Disc that his schedule would keep him too busy to even think about visiting the vicious old snake.  He thought of Lady Sybil and all the vapid and pointless social functions she was always trying to get him to go to.  There was probably one coming up that he could suffer through as an excuse not to meet with Rust.  Of course, if there was some nobby do to attend then Rust would be there anyway; the man would never miss the chance to be seen in high society.  However, Vimes would have Sybil there and, bless her heart, she was particularly good at deflecting most of the nobbiness from getting too far under her husband’s skin.  For now, Vimes’ answer seemed to placate Lord Rust.

‘Good man,’ said Rust, seemingly satisfied that he had gotten his own way.  He sat back in his carriage and drew the curtain across the window.  Vimes heard him say ‘Drive on’ from within the carriage and the horses were instantly whipped into life, sending the carriage rattling off down the street and, mercifully, out of Vimes’ way.  As a testament to how much he hated toffs like Rust, he was glad to be going to see the Patrician, something he never thought he’d think.

As the coach drove away, the young driver looked over his shoulder at Vimes with a most curious expression.

Vimes had to admit, he was a good-looking lad.

Good-looking, and somehow familiar.

Vimes shook himself free of the thought.  No time for that now.  He had a job to do.

 

*           *           *

 

‘Ah, Commander, do come in.’  Lord Vetinari finished writing something on his immaculate desk, placed it with some other papers, and handed them to his assistant, Drumknott.  ‘See to it that these leave by the first Post.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Drumknott before bustling out of the Oblong Office.  Lord Vetinari turned his full attention to Vimes and smiled.  He looked briefly at the exquisite little carriage clock atop his desk and then back at Vimes, always with the same cool gaze.

‘And only an hour and a half since I summoned you.  Impressive.’

‘Sir.’  Vimes walked stiffly, helmet under his arm, to the same spot in front of the Patrician’s desk that he always occupied when treating with Lord Vetinari and stared fixedly ahead.

‘Oh, come now, Commander,’ said Vetinari, smoothly.  ‘A man of your station does not have to stand on ceremony like a common patrolman.  Please, sit.’

‘If it’s all the same, sir, I’ll stand.’

‘As you wish.  How is the family?’  The question completely threw Vimes, so much so that his gaze flitted momentarily from its usual place on the wall behind the Patrician’s head to the face of Vetinari.  Asking personal questions was not something you expected from Havelock Vetinari.  It was like being asked about your holidays while you were being stabbed.  The seconds stretched out before Vimes and his mouth felt oddly dry.  He realised that an answer was expected of him.

‘Erm, fine, sir.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Vetinari.  ‘Do give my regards to Lady Sybil.’

‘…yes, sir.’  Vimes felt an uncomfortable sensation as he tried to process this new and disarming tack the Patrician was taking.  It was common knowledge that no one played mind games quite like Havelock Vetinari, and Vimes hadn’t liked them before, but now he was being asked about his family it felt…odd.

But damn it if the heartless b*****d didn’t sound sincere.

Vetinari’s inscrutable gaze continued to linger unwaveringly on Vimes.

‘And young Master Sam?’ asked the Patrician.  ‘He must be what, seven by now?’

Vimes stiffened.  If Lord Vetinari was trying to get under the Commander’s skin, then asking about his son was a step too far.  Vimes was immensely protective over his son.  He would have been so about his wife as well, had Lady Sybil not the iron constitution and stiff backhand of the truly robust aristocratic woman, meaning she was more than capable of taking care of herself.  If this was one of the Patrician’s little wheedling techniques to gain an advantage over someone then that did not only mean the gloves were off, but they were wrapped in barbed wire and put back on again.  For a hot and angry moment Vimes considered telling the Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork to bloody well keep his nose out of his family, but as he glared into the cool eyes of the Patrician he was startled to see no trace of agenda.

Gods, was the man making small talk?

Vimes again realised that he was staring at the Patrician without answering.

‘Eight, sir.’  Vimes resumed looking at the wall above the Patrician’s head.

‘Eight?  My goodness!’ exclaimed Vetinari.  ‘How time does fly.’

‘What was it you wanted, sir?’  Vimes felt, in that moment, that being sent to the Palace dungeons for a thorough inspection of the facilities would have been a picnic compared to engaging in idle chatter with the Patrician.  There was a moment’s silence after Vimes interrupted Vetinari, so he added: ‘Begging your pardon.’

‘Ah, yes.’  Lord Vetinari shifted in his seat ever so slightly and laid his pale hands on the arms of his ornate chair.  ‘As you know, the Palace was subject to an intruder this morning.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vimes, glad to be back on to official matters.

‘I understand that the miscreant is still at large?’

Vimes let out a long breath.  It pained him to admit it, especially to a man whom he felt was always watching him, always watching the Watch.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vimes, woodenly.

‘Now don’t be like that, Commander,’ said Vetinari, soothingly.  ‘If witnesses are to be believed, and I find that people tend to want to tell the truth around me, you gave chase spectacularly.’

Vimes bunched his fist against his side.  It still stung that the little sod had given him the slip.

‘We will bring the thief to justice, sir.  I will see to it personally.’

‘I have no doubt, Commander,’ said Vetinari, allowing himself a thin smile.  ‘I have no doubt at all.  But, as I am sure you can appreciate, it does not do for the Palace of the Patrician to be seen as vulnerable.’

‘No, sir.’  Frankly, Vimes couldn’t give a toss about the Palace, and not much of a toss for the Patrician, either.  But it had stopped being the Palace the moment the thief had taken…whatever he had taken.

It was now a crime scene.

Vimes’ crime scene.

‘So, my office would greatly appreciate the discretion of the Watch while they deal with this matter.’  Vimes looked at the Patrician again.  Was he joking?  Vimes’ conversations with Dibbler and Rust on his way to the Palace confirmed what he already knew: news like the Patrician’s Palace being knocked off by some opportunist thief had spread like the wildest of fire.  There was no way that it wasn’t being discussed in every corner of the city that very moment.

But still.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Excellent.  Drumknott will see to it that you have what you need.’  As if appearing out of thin air, the Patrician’s assistant was suddenly standing beside him.  Vimes gave a little jump; his copper’s senses poised and ready for a fight.  He relaxed at the sight of the neat little secretary.

‘This way, Commander,’ said Drumknott, indicating the door.  Obediently, Vimes followed.  He had taken about half a dozen steps when he froze.  He turned to face the Patrician again.

‘Sir?’

‘Hmmm?’  The Patrician looked up from his desk.

‘What exactly did the thief take?’  Vimes felt remarkably stupid for not asking this question sooner, but the mental chess game that he always seemed to find himself playing with Vetinari had sapped his attention again.

Lord Vetinari smiled, which Vimes always hated.  It meant that the cunning b*****d was enjoying himself, and that was never good.

‘Does it really matter, Commander?’ said the Patrician, perfectly evenly.  ‘The simple fact that a crime has been committed should be good enough for you, surely?’

Vimes turned to fully face the Patrician again, tensing to attention.

‘With all due respect, sir, it does matter, in the eyes of the law.’

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow.  To a lesser man this spelt almost a certain terminal dip in their future career prospects, but Vimes held fast.  The law was the law, and Sam Vimes would have to be long dead �" and buried very deeply in a sealed concrete casket �" for him not to apply that to everyone, no matter who they were.  Both men stared at each other for a moment.  Eventually, the solitary eyebrow was lowered.

‘Indeed,’ said the Patrician.  ‘As always, Commander, your steadfast upholding of the law to its last letter is most admirable.’

‘Sir.’

‘Let us just say that something personal has been taken from me, and I am entrusting you to successfully retrieve it.’

Vimes frowned.  The Patrician was a famously private man, but how the hell was he supposed to track down a stolen item when he didn’t know what it was?  As if Vetinari could read minds �" and Vimes wouldn’t be surprised if he could �" the Patrician addressed that very thought.

‘Fear not, Commander.  I am confident that when you catch this…misguided individual, you will know exactly which of their stolen items belongs to me.’

Wait, items?  Vimes’ mind zeroed in on that word like a shark smelling blood in the water.

‘Sir, if you know anything about this thief, then I must insist you inform me this minute.’

There went the eyebrow again.  By now, men who fancied themselves as much tougher, more important and generally better than Vimes would have been wetting themselves out of fear, but to Vimes the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork had now stopped being the absolute ruler of the city and was simply a victim of crime that the Watch would do right by.

‘But of course, Commander.  And I will happily cooperate with the Watch in this matter.  Any pertinent information will, naturally, be made available with swiftness and clarity.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Again, as if reading Vimes’ mind, the Patrician continued.

‘I merely said “items” because I highly doubt that someone as bold to as encroach upon my home and steal from me is likely to stop at just one burglary.’

‘Sir.’

‘I do not feel that you will have to wait long before you are back in pursuit of them.’

At that moment, the door to the Oblong Office flew open and Drumknott skidded to a halt, looking flustered.

‘Drumknott?  What is the meaning…’ began the Patrician.

‘I’m sorry, my Lord,’ said the wheezing assistant, breathlessly.  ‘It’s just…’

‘Yes?  Come on, man, spit it out.’

‘There’s been another burglary!’

Vimes’ gaze intensified as he looked at the out of breath clerk, but the Patrician remained as impassive-looking as ever.

‘My dear Drumknott,’ he said, smoothly.  ‘You of all people with your most useful love of statistics should know that during an average day in Ankh-Morpork there are countless…’

‘It’s him, my Lord.  The same man who struck at the Palace.’

This time both eyebrows went up.

‘Indeed?  And where, pray tell, has he breached this time?’

‘The Assassin’s Guild, my Lord.’

In the Oblong Office time seemed to stand still.  The only sounds for a moment were the gentle ticking of Lord Vetinari’s antique clock and Drumknott trying to catch his breath.

Vimes blinked.

Vetinari blinked.

Drumknott wheezed.

‘Are you quite sure?’ asked the Patrician, speaking carefully.  It took a moment or two for Drumknott to be able to answer, but he nodded as he fought for breath.

‘Word was sent from the desk of Lord Downey himself, my Lord,’ said Drumknott, still red-faced.  ‘He has demanded audience.’

‘Has he now?’ said Lord Vetinari, his tone suggesting that he found the concept of anyone demanding anything of him to be mildly amusing.

‘I’m afraid so, my Lord,’ said Drumknott.  ‘He has sent word that you are to look into this matter immediately…’  Lord Vetinari could sense there was more to this demand.

‘Or?’ he said, inclining his head slightly.

‘Or, my Lord, the Assassin’s Guild will instead.’

‘I see.’  The Patrician was silent for a moment, but he seemed to brighten when his gaze fell upon Vimes.  He looked at him as if he had not been present the whole time.  Vimes did not like the way the old tyrant was looking at him, but then again, he never did.

‘Ah, Commander Vimes.  Perfect.’

‘Sir?’  Vimes could sense what was coming, and he liked it even less than the way the Patrician was looking at him.

‘I have matters to attend to.  Run along to the Assassin’s Guild and parley with Lord Downey before he starts having people inhumed left, right and centre, would you?’

Run along?

Run along?

I’m nobody’s errand boy, sonny-Jim!  The words rang in Vimes’ head, angry yet unspoken.  He knew that Vetinari needed him too much to do anything too harsh to him if he did speak out of turn, but Vimes hadn’t been a copper for as long as he had without knowing how to pick his battles, and with Vetinari you picked them very, very carefully.

In place of the scathing retort that begged to be uttered, Vimes instead snapped to attention.

‘Sir.’

‘Excellent.  Now, don’t let me detain you.’  The Patrician resumed examining papers on his desk, a tried and true method of informing anyone in his presence that their meeting was most definitely over.  But something kept Vimes rooted to the spot.  Lord Vetinari looked up when he noticed that Vimes had not left his office.

‘Is there something else you require, Commander?’

‘Sir, the Assassin’s Guild is now a crime scene.’

‘So it would seem.  And your point on that is?’  Vetinari’s tone was infuriatingly silken.

‘I would have been heading there directly anyway.’

‘Of course you would.  Your dedication to duty has always been nothing short of inspiring.’

You slimy git, thought Vimes.

‘Just so we’re clear, sir, I’ll be going as part of my job, and not because you asked me to.’

Good on you!  Vimes allowed himself an internal pat on the back.

Vetinari smiled.  It was thin and humourless and looked nothing short of deadly.

‘I would expect nothing less, Commander.’

Well alright then, said Vimes’ inner voice.

‘I shall just consider it a personal favour nonetheless.’

Blast!