Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"That's sergeant-at-arms, thank you. For now." Vimes grabbed Carcer's shirt collar, and dragged him to justice.

The Patrician watched them until they were lost to view. Then he raised his head slightly.

"You may come out now, Miss Easy."

Vetinari turned to see a young woman emerging from behind a large memorial. One of the many maids who worked in the Palace; Mildred Easy was a small, slight girl with auburn hair and wide brown eyes; and had upon her face what Vetinari had once heard Vimes describe as the "Cockbill Street Look". Worry and fierce pride had scored a few premature lines on the forehead of a woman who couldn't be much past twenty. Mildred wore an old coat, carefully patched and mended, over her plain dress. It was far too big for her; possibly it had been her father's, or one of her brothers. Families in Cockbill tended to be in double figures, while the rooms they occupied were of a number below two.

Mildred managed to execute a small curtsey, wobbling slightly. She didn't seem to be in the natural state of those in the presence of the Patrician, mild terror, but in a kind of daze. She looked up at him with slightly glazed eyes.

"Evenin', Milord," she finally said. Vetinari inclined his head.

"Good evening, Miss Easy. Was there something you had to attend to here?"

A little light blinked on behind her eyes. "Yessir. Our Gran's grave, sir. Got to tidy it up, I promised her I would. Only there was that Carcer fellow hanging about, didn't like the look of him so I hid and then Mr Vimes turned up and—"

The Patrician held up his hand, "Of course. Shall we get on with it, then?"

Mildred blinked. "We?"

Vetinari treated her to one of his little smiles; "I feel I must make up for delaying you. Your task would have been completed some time ago if it had not been for Commander Vimes and I. So I shall assist you. It's the least I can do."

These words knocked Mildred out of her trance. She stared at him, her eyes huge.

"B-but— you can't!" she gasped.

"Dear me. Whyever not?"

"You can't go on your knees and scrub our Gran's grave! It's covered in moss and bird sh— doings and, and— you're the Patrician!"

"You have remarkable powers of observation," he said mildly, "Shall we proceed?"

"But—" The young woman looked completely thunderstruck.

"I insist."

She opened her mouth to protest once more, but then remembered that when the supreme ruler of the city insisted upon something, it was not a good idea to argue with him. Unless you wanted him to introduce you to his friends, the scorpions. She wisely gave up her attempt to dissuade him from this small act of social upheaval.

"It's over here, Milord."

Vetinari watched her as she lead the way over to a crowded patch near the rear of the graveyard. She was lurching rather like a zombie who had not encountered the passionate worldview of Reg Shoe. The Patrician recognised the symptoms. Shock. Mildred had seen and heard the events of the past hour; Vimes' fight with Carcer, and more troublesome, his own little confession. And to cap it all, she was about to witness his Lordship get down on his hands and knees and clean the small cheap grave marker of a lower class woman. It really wasn't the sort of thing that happened every day.

They reached the grave, and Mildred stood staring at it for a while. He leaned on his cane and bent slightly to read the names in the gloom.

Flora and William Easy.

"We buried them together," Mildred said, very quietly, "Mam didn't want our William to be on his own." She shook herself, hitched her skirts up a little and knelt by the wooden marker, then looked nervously up at the Patrician.

"You really don't have to do this, Milord—"

Vetinari did not answer her, but joined her down on the grass. He began to pick moss from around the inscription, without his usual fastidiousness. Mildred hesitated, then she began to help him.

They worked together in silence. The moss was removed, dirt was scrubbed off, dead flowers were taken away. Vetinari found his gaze drawn back to the very short space of time between William's date of birth and death. The boy had been fourteen months old. Mildred had a look of intense concentration on her face, as if she were puzzling out some complex problem. He sincerely hoped the answer was the correct one.

After half an hour, the grave shone in the night. They both sat back and studied their handiwork.

"Clean as a whistle," Mildred glanced shyly over at him, "You a grand job, there, Milord. And I'm not just saying that."

"Thank you," Vetinari grasped his cane and began to ease himself stiffly to his feet. His game leg did not trouble him as much as he liked people to think, but kneeling, not a normal position for him, had somewhat cut the circulation off. A look of genuine concern appeared on Mildred's face, and she reached out to help him. He gently waved her away.

Mildred sat back again and stared at the grave once more. Then she turned slightly to look across the cemetery. He did not have to follow her gaze; she was looking at the grave of John Keel. He could see her mind working. He waited.

"The Patrician helped me clean my Gran's grave," she said, finally, "And Mr Vimes was John Keel. No one would believe me if I told 'em."

She looked up suddenly, straight into his eyes; "So I won't tell anyone. I'm not daft, your Lordship. I heard something I shouldn't have," she shrugged, still unflinching before the Patrician's formidable blue gaze, "So something happened and Mr Vimes went back in time, and he became Keel. There's a body lying in John Keel's grave, and the twenty fifth of May still happened, and everyone remembers Keel, not Mr Vimes. So what happened tonight— didn't happen. I can't go about telling people things that didn't happen, can I? They'd think I was off my head. It's like you said yourself, sir. What can I prove? To what end would I prove it?"

Vetinari studied her for a long moment, as if seeing her for the first time. Mildred sat very still, with the air of a genuinely repentant criminal awaiting judgement. They watched each other. Bats chittered overhead.

"Do you know, Miss Easy, that the Archchancellor of Unseen University required the concept of things not happening explained to him, in detail, several times?" the Patrician told her with a small smile, "The chap was quite insistent that something had happened which quite clearly had not. And yet you have grasped it with admirable speed. Well done."

The tension leaked away. He was delighted the girl understood the situation. It hadn't actually been her fault; Mildred had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although it was somewhat depressing that an uneducated maid understood him better than most of the Guild leaders in the city.

She blushed and looked down with a bashful smile, "Well, he probably had lots of things on his mind, Milord," she said diplomatically, "Y'know, wizarding things. Now me, all I got to worry about is dust."

Mildred had been promoted from scullery maid some time ago, and was now responsible for the corridors in the hubwards wing of the palace. He had to concede that no one worried more about dust than Mildred. The floors were so clean that, if one so desired, one could eat off them. Vetinari held out his hand as Mildred started to get up. She paused and stared at it for a moment, then realised what he intended. She bit her lip.

"Um, my hands are dirty, sir."

"My, what a remarkable coincidence. My hands are dirty too." She blushed once more, gingerly put her hand into his, and let him help her up. Her hand was small, callused from work.

"Thank you, Milord," she whispered. She obviously wasn't sure what to do now. After a few moments, she said; "I hope I never go back in time. Not back to where Mr Vimes went, anyway. Gran told me about it, it was horrible back then. She used to bring me up here every May and tell me what happened."

Vetinari saw the look on her face. "You were very close to her?" he asked softly.

"Mam and Dad were always out working. She brought us all up." Mildred took a deep shuddering breath, as if fighting tears.

"I am sincerely sorry, Mildred." He knew how Flora and William had died. He had never mentioned it to anyone, but he had been rather angry about it.

She looked up, obviously surprised, "Why? It wasn't your fault, Milord," she looked back down again, "It was mine."

He raised his eyebrows, "Your fault? Dragon King of—"

She shook her head. "I know who put the arsenic in the candles, sir. But I took them home. I remember telling Mr Vimes it was perks, not like stealing. But it was stealing, sir. I took something that didn't belong to me, and I gave it to our Gran, and it killed her and William. I killed them."

The last sentence was a whisper. Vetinari had always been aware of the servants discreetly taking home small items that would not be missed. He saw to need to put a stop to it; there was quite a difference between things he no longer had a use for and the palace silver.

"I know why you didn't want us to take anything you used now, sir. I used to get puzzled about it. I mean, you hardy eat anything, and you don't seem to care about fine things, so why would you be bothered about us using the things you'd finished with? But you must have known someone might try something—"

That was true. He had been an assassin, once; their rules were still remembered. The victim alone was inhumed; servants were not to be harmed. The unprotected were not to be harmed. Dragon had been callously irresponsible. Vetinari had been disgusted by the vampire's lack of concern when he had been told of the deaths he'd caused. The possibility that someone other than the Patrician might use the candles had been disregarded. It was sloppy, arrogant and contemptible.

Vetinari sighed. He gently reached out and raised the girl's chin, tears were dripping down her face, "Mildred, I know my words alone will not help. But the deaths of your grandmother and brother were caused by the arrogance of one man. And bad luck, I am afraid. Any one of you could have taken those candles home. Do you understand? Do not blame yourself, certainly not for your consideration for your family. I was aware of the practice. Good grief, candles that were almost finished? They'd simply be thrown away, and it isn't as if the city doesn't have enough rubbish lying in its streets, despite the enthusiasm of Harry King's gnolls."

Mildred took out a hankie and blew her nose; she gave him a fragile smile.

"You may be interested to know that Dragon King of Arms is no longer with us," Vetinari rubbed the silver pommel of his cane with his thumb, studying it with an innocent look on his long face; "After I was forced to release him he decided to travel to Uberwald. I'm afraid a rather enthusiastic gentleman took it upon himself to drive a stake through his heart."

Mildred stared at him, with a vicious gleam in her eye. Then she said, slowly; "That— is very interesting, sir. But he'll be back. That sort always do."

The Patrician raised his eyes and studied the night sky, attempting to keep the blank look on his face; "Oh, possibly. I daresay he will return, eventually. But not for a great many number of years, I'm afraid. His— executioner— also decided to place his remains in a jar, took a ship to the Rim and—" Vetinari lowered his gaze, his right eyebrow raised.

"Oh dear," Mildred said, "That was, um, very enthusiastic of him." They looked at each other. They were both trying not to grin. Sometimes, the Patrician thought, there can be justice. Perhaps he would tell Vimes about Dragon tomorrow, as a little extra treat after Carcer's execution. It would be rather hard for the vampire to regenerate, floating around in outer space. There weren't any people out there to accidentally bleed on his ashes.

"Quite," the Patrician said mildly, "But look at the time. I'm sure you have infinitely more important things to do than listen to silly gossip. I believe you have two days off, starting tomorrow?"

Mildred grinned. "Yeah. Two whole days! Never got as many holidays in my other jobs—" she seemed to realise something, and her hand flew to her mouth, "Oh! It must be gone midnight— me Mam'll kill me!"

"The streets of the city can be quite perilous at night. Especially for an unaccompanied young lady," Vetinari stroked his beard, considering, "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you home, Miss Easy?"

Mildred stared at him again. This request seemed to shock her as much as his offer to help clean the grave had. "You want to escort me home? I live in—"

"Cockbill Street. Yes, I know. It's on the other side of the city. Rather a long way for a young woman to travel alone."

"You can't be seen with me, sir— I mean, if you're seen with a maid—" Mildred watched him, frowning a little, obviously wondering why he was offering. Her expression became slightly reproachful; "I really won't tell anyone, Milord."

He patted her shoulder; "I know you won't, Miss Easy. I have great faith in your discretion. However, I cannot allow you negotiate the streets at this time of night. I must see you safely to your door."

"It's really kind of you sir, but if people see you with me—"

"Oh dear. Of course, I wouldn't dream of compromising your reputation. I shall be discreet." He watched her face, to see if she'd got it.

Mildred went bright red, then burst out laughing. Unlike most of the other maids, she was not a giggler. Vetinari found giggling rather irritating. Mildred's laugh was more a rounded chuckle.

"No! Not my reputation!" her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes full of mixed mortification and amusement, "I wasn't thinking about— not about that! I meant people might wonder what you were doing down the Shades, and if any of the Guilds heard—" her eyes widened, and she blushed even deeper, "Oh gods, they would think that, wouldn't they?"

Vetinari watched her as she tried to calm down. Sometimes a good laugh did the same as a good cry. It seemed Mildred had needed to get a few things out of her system. He tsk'd mildly, raising an eyebrow at her; "Yes, some people do seem to have rather grubby imaginations, do they not?" Mildred erupted into laughter again.

"I appreciate your concern, Miss Easy. I believe I have a solution." His eyes focused on something above them. Mildred, still chuckling, followed his gaze. She stopped laughing as soon as she realised what he might mean.

"Oh—"

The tiles upon the rooftops sparkled in the moonlight.

Chapter Text

It was like a totally different world up here. The roofs, vents and chimneys rose one after another like mountain ranges. The moon gilded everything with silver. The sounds from the streets were muffled. And thanks to the smoke that drifted past them, even the smell of the river could be forgotten.

Mildred took it all in and grinned. Twenty minutes after departing from the Street of Small Gods, they were now standing atop The Spiteful Sisters of Seven Handed Sek Charity School, looking over towards Quirm Street. Getting up on the roofs hadn't been as difficult as she'd expected. There were plenty of privies, outhouses, drainpipes and cracks in mortar and bricks to use. You learned something new every day…

She was certainly learning a lot tonight. Like the fact that his Lordship was a lot more athletic than anyone would give him credit for. He moved up walls like a lizard. Mildred had become used to seeing him limping through the palace corridors in those rare moments when he got away from his paperwork; leaning heavily on that ebony cane, which at this moment was tucked into his belt. He was really strong too, for such a slim man; he'd pulled her up from the outhouse behind the Temple of Blind Io onto its roof, one handed. There'd been no sign of strain on his face; just his usual frighteningly calm expression.

And the most suprising thing of all was the fact that she wasn't frightened. She was alone on a roof with the supreme ruler of the city, who could have anyone executed. Even Mr Drumknott, who probably spent the most time with him, was rather nervous around his Lordship.

A tall, thin man, dressed in imposing black robes. He had dark hair that was brushed back from the forehead, a neat beard and a long, aquiline face that was far too pale. And of course there was that Stare of his, that no one could match, piercing, icy blue and so very, very knowing. I can read your mind, it said to you, and you haven't a hope in hell of even beginning to figure out what I'm thinking. Vetinari seemed to know absolutely everything that happened anywhere in the city; could find out things about people that even their closest friends wouldn't know. He knew; and was notorious for exploiting; the discomfort people felt when in the company of others and experiencing a lack of conversation. You said something, anything to fill the silence up, and he would simply sit there and look at you attentively over those long, steepled hands. Not to mention the dark arched eyebrows. Seeing them slowly rise when you'd almost got used to the carefully immobile face was quite a shock. Mildred fervently hoped she'd never be Listened at by his Lordship.

A former assassin; who she'd heard admit, in a spine chilling matter-of-fact way, to killing five men thirty years ago.

Mildred knew all this; and she wasn't frightened. Respectful, yes, because firstly he was the Patrician, and secondly (and more importantly on a personal level), he was the man who paid her wages.

It was the memory of his Lordship helping her with her gran's grave. She remembered that Gran had quite liked Vetinari; "Say what you like about this one, he's not bloody Winder. Or that bastard Snapcase. I tell you, lass, it was hell under those two. Now there's no curfews, you can believe what you like and say what you like—"

"But Gran, I heard he's got spies everywhere—"

"Yeah, but that's only for really serious stuff. Vetinari doesn't have you dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and tortured just for being rude about him. You see all those people up in Sator Square on the soapboxes? Any of them ever disappeared and never got seen again? He's smart enough to know that the likes of us complaining about him's just like moaning about the weather. Y'know, just moaning, no real harm meant. The real bother'll come from the Lords 'n' the Guilds, and them buggers can look after themselves."

Mildred wasn't important enough to kill, and in the context of not dying, this did not insult her at all. His Lordship wouldn't have bothered helping her and then offering to escort her home if he was going to have her chucked to the scorpions. Or cheered her up by telling her about Dragon King of Arm's nasty demise. Or making her laugh.

And she was enjoying herself. Climbing and wandering the rooftops was a lot of fun. Mildred was making a game of guessing which street they were now on, or which particular building they were scrambling over. It was also a hell of a lot quicker; instead of going around big buildings, you just went across them. It had never been intended, but Ankh Morpork was perfect for rooftop travel. Buildings lay close together, and some were connected by rooms built over narrow streets, raised from the ground to let people pass underneath. They were making a beeline for Cockbill, impossible at street level, and there were no people or animals to get in the way.

"It's really nice up here, sir," she commented as she followed the Patrician around a stack of chimneys.

Vetinari nodded, "Yes. Very peaceful, isn't it? An oasis of calm just above the bustle. And so much quicker, too."

"Yeah! We're on—" she hazarded a guess, "The Scours already. This was a great idea, sir. I'm gonna be home in no time! "

The Patrician watched her out of the corner of his eye. Miss Easy had been doubtful about going up on the rooftops initially, although she hadn't said so. Now however, she was following him enthusiastically, ambling carefully across the tiles and crawling up walls, her eyes shining. Observing her reactions was reminding him how he had felt all those years ago, wandering over the buildings for the first time. It was just you, the rooftops and the sky above…

He also noticed that Mildred did not seem to be at all nervous in his presence. If it had been anyone else, in any other situation, he would have taken steps to rectify this as soon as possible; but it would be rather difficult, if not dangerous, to have her paralysed with terror fifty feet above the ground. And a small part of him found it refreshing to be in the company of someone who wasn't completely frightened of him. It was rather like talking to Leonard – Mildred wasn't hiding anything from him, or trying to get something out of him. When she paid a compliment; as she had just now, that this little expedition was a good idea; it was because she meant it, not to curry favour. Unlike Leonard, though, she understood, and was comfortable with, duplicity.

He helped Mildred over a parapet that led onto a row of houses along Clay Lane, and attempted to keep a grimace from his face. His back twinged in a most unpleasant fashion. Not just his back, either, but his shoulders, his knees… It had been a few years since he'd done anything like this. Not for the first time tonight, Vetinari asked himself just why he was doing this. It would have been a simple matter to take Miss Easy back to the Palace and arrange for a coach to take her home…

It was the twenty fifth of May. That was why. The conversation with Vimes had summoned the ghost of a seventeen-year-old student assassin, yawning and unfolding from a forgotten recess in the depths of his mind. It had nagged him into this. Just one more time. Remember what it was like not to be stuck behind a mountain of paper, back when you prowled this city like a big cat. Back when you watched Keel. And Keel had been Vimes. Who would have credited it? How much, he wondered, had what he had witnessed been Keel, and how much had it been Vimes?

He was definitely getting out of breath. I'd have been in Cockbill by now, his seventeen-year-old-self jeered.

He noticed Mildred watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"Um, Milord? Would it be alright if we stopped for a minute? I'm a bit puffed out."

Vetinari stopped and looked at her. Clever. She was doing him a favour while making it look as though it were the other way round. He nodded, "Of course."

"Thank you, sir."

They took a seat on the parapet they'd just climbed over; he took deep breaths as discreetly as he could.

"It would appear," he leaned forward and rested his hands upon his knees, "That I am not as young as I was."

Mildred frowned and took another look at Lord Vetinari, in the light of recent discoveries. She knew he was middle aged, about forty odds, but he moved like a man of twenty. And he'd lifted her bodily of the ground with one hand, which was not something a lot of younger men could do. Then there was the image she'd received from the conversation his Lordship had with Vimes; of Havelock Vetinari fighting in Cable Street, holding a sprig of lilac in his mouth. In a bizarre way, it made him seem quite— dashing.

"Our Gran used to say you're only as old as the men you feel. Or women," she said cheerfully. Then her brain caught up with her mouth. Through the burning haze of utter mortification, she watched as Lord Vetinari's head turned, very, very slowly, to face her. An eyebrow was raised. Mildred clapped her hand over her mouth.

"I'm s-sorry! I didn't mean to be—" Her voice trailed off in horror.

"Your grandmother seems to have had a very robust sense of humour," he finally murmured, after letting her stew for a while. Ah, yes, the famous Ankh Morpork humour. Robust was putting it mildly. Vetinari looked at her for another long moment. Mildred began to fidget anxiously, and chided herself for being so stupid.

"I'm really sorry Milord." Even in moonlight, Mildred's face was scarlet. He relented a little. What she'd said had been rather amusing. He decided to change the subject.

"Will anyone be in when you get home?" he asked. Mildred breathed out and nodded, grateful they were moving on.

"Our Mam will. Dad does night shift. It's just me left now; all my brothers are married or apprenticed."

"You have no sisters?"

"No, sir. I'm the only girl. I got seven brothers."

"It must have been rather lonely for you. And young boys can be quite cruel to their sisters."

"Oh, no. I gave as good as I got, sir," she grinned, remembering the running battles she used to have with her brothers, "And I had my friends, too. I wasn't lonely."

She wondered why he was asking her all these questions. His Lordship wasn't known for making small talk. He made other people do that.

"That is good to hear. So many childhoods are blighted by such things," the Patrician sat back a little and, oh dear, steepled his fingers, "Do you enjoy working at the Palace, Mildred?"

"Well—" Mildred started to worry. What was he expecting her to say? She couldn't honestly say she liked scrubbing floors; it was simply how she made her money. "I like it there a lot more than the other places I've worked. And— I'm really not just saying this 'cause you're here, I really mean this, but I think you're the best employer I've had."

Lord Vetinari knew there were quite a lot of things people assumed him to be; but "Best Employer" was not one he had expected himself. He regarded her, eyebrows aloft; communicating the question "Why?" more eloquently than words.

Mildred plunged on nervously; ticking points off on her fingers, "You're always really polite, you don't shout at anyone, you've never fired anyone for a daft little mistake, you've never, um, taken advantage of anyone," her face started to flush and she moved quickly on, "You don't make daft demands like how many pegs we should hang up the washing with or run your finger over tables and suchlike to see if we've dusted properly. And you give us really nice presents at Hogswatch."

There were a few moments of silence after this little speech. She risked a peek at the Patrician; he was, thankfully, not looking at her but out over the city. His expression had not changed at all.

It was true that the only demands he placed upon his staff was to ensure that the business of the Palace ran smoothly; he managed his— household in much the same way as he managed his city. The structure and duties of the Palace staff had not been changed; indeed, some of the staff had not been changed when he became Patrician. What was that wonderful little phrase again? "Governments come and go, but dust accumulates." It was quite along the lines of his own thinking. Why interfere with a winning formula? As for clothespegs; he cherished his ignorance on the subject.

He had heard, however, that Lady Selachii went through laundry maids the way the Watch went through dartboards.

"I gather you have worked for a number of the Lords in this city?" He saw Mildred nod out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, two, really. I started for Lord and Lady Selachii when I was fourteen—"

Ah.

"Then I worked for Lord Rust for a while," she sighed, a mixture of irritation and resignation in her voice, "But he heard our Tom complaining about the rent and I was out on my ear—" she stopped, and shook herself. "I'm sorry sir, I shouldn't be saying things like this."

"I firmly believe in the right of free speech, Miss Easy."

Most people, upon hearing this from Vetinari, would have looked doubtful and asked, "Really?"Mildred, suprisingly, chuckled instead, "I think I'm just exercising the right to whinge, really."

The Patrician found a smile tugging the corners of his mouth, he placed his hand in front of it; "Well, the dividing line between the two is narrow, I would say. Often, speaking one's mind can be very much like complaining about the weather. It may be impossible to stop the rain, but it may, on rare occasions, assist in obtaining something to keep the rain off. I see no harm in allowing people to get things off their chests. Indeed, forced silence could lead to an uncontrollable outburst, should the pressure become too much."

Mildred realised she was staring at Lord Vetinari with her mouth and eyes wide open. Gran was right about him. Bloody hell. They even used the same phrase about the weather…

Vetinari straightened up and brought his hands down upon his knees; "Do you feel sufficiently recovered, Miss Easy?"

"Yessir, thank you." Mildred tried to snap out of her shock.

"Then we shall proceed," he stood up in a smooth movement and raised Mildred to her feet, "I calculate that we should arrive in Cockbill Street in fifteen minutes; if we keep up our pace."

Mildred followed him, still taken aback, as he strode swiftly towards Masons Road.

Chapter Text

The area of the Shades in which Cockbill Street lay was very close to the Ankh. It also hosted the cattle market and the slaughterhouse. Needless to say, then, that the local residents required rather stronger nasal defences than other Ankh Morpork citizens. In the Palace, the city's olfactory signature was a dull background, like the noises of carts in the streets outside a closed window. Here, the reek assaulted the nostrils with fiendish glee. It almost rivalled the independent entity that was the Smell of Foul Old Ron. Almost.

The Patrician perused the street with a keen eye, while valiantly attempting not to gag. People around here were either out working or asleep at this time, and the length of Cockbill Street up ahead was deserted. Even so, he guided Mildred through every patch of shadow and shade as they moved along.

The moon painted the street with silver. It seemed that, judging from the condition of most of the houses here, this was the only kind of silver the residents would ever have. The people here were obviously house proud. Pity the houses were not deserving of that pride. Old, badly in need of major renovation; yet so clean and tidy.

The contrast would seem strange to anyone who was not aware of the tenancy laws. The dwelling was the property of the landlord, not the tenant, and as such repairs and alterations were the right of the landlord. The residents of Cockbill, with their clever apprentices in woodwork, stonemasonry and plastering, were forbidden to do the repairs themselves. Lord Rust owned Cockbill, and it was typical of the man to adhere so stringently to the law in such a small minded, petty manner. Of course, he would not think the place worth spending money on, but he would instantly evict anyone who'd made any obvious improvements.

"Here's my house, here, sir," Mildred stopped before a door coated with peeling cheap paint. She seemed to be having an internal debate, "Um—"

"Yes?"

She looked up at him, anxiety, determination and embarrassment fought over her expression, "Would you, um, would you want to come in for a cup of tea?"

He stared at her.

"I— I mean, it's the least I can do, and you'll feel a lot better heading back with a cup of tea inside you, and," she looked down, fiddled with a button on her coat and mumbled, "Er, you don't have to if you don't want to, Milord."

The Patrician studied the girl for a long moment, then he said, "I'd be most grateful for a cup of tea, Miss Easy. Thank you."

Mildred looked surprised, but managed to cover it quickly, "It's cheap tea, mind."

"I am sure I shall enjoy it."

"Alright. Come on in, then," Mildred produced a key and was about to unlock the door, when it was opened from inside. The furious woman in the doorway was quite small. Her voice was not. They were both forced back a step by sheer sonic force.

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"Uh, Mam—"

"I was worried sick! What the hell d'you think you're doing, roaming the streets at this time of night?"

"Mam—"

"All those perverts and weirdos about—"

"Mam—"

For possibly the first time in his life, Havelock Vetinari found himself unnoticed; not because of his skills in concealment, but because the lady was so intent on ranting. Mildred's mother was shaking her finger under her daughter's nose. Mildred and the finger seemed to be the only things that existed in the universe for Mrs Easy right at that moment.

"You could've been mugged or killed or—"

"Mam, we've got company." Mildred waved her hand desperately in the Patrician's direction. Any minute now, one of the neighbours would be coming out to investigate the noise, especially if it sounded like an argument. Cockbill people might have been a little different, but they were still in Ankh Morpork and enjoyed free street entertainment like everyone else. Mrs Easy paused in taking a breath into her formidable lungs, and frowned.

"What?" She peered in the direction of Mildred's frantic pointing. Vetinari watched the woman's face in interest as the righteous fury was replaced by one he was very familiar with wherever he turned up unexpectedly: a face in front of a mind that was whimpering Ohmigodsit'sHIM.

"Oh—"

He treated her to a small bow. "Good evening."

"Oh—"

Mildred grabbed her mother and gently hustled her into the Easy residence, closely followed by the Patrician, who quietly closed the door behind them. A split second later, heads appeared at doors and windows along the street, but soon disappeared as their owners went back to bed, feeling quite disappointed the show was already over.

Mrs Easy was helped into one of the ancient chairs next to the stove, still gawping at Vetinari. Mildred knelt in front of her and patted her hand.

"I'm so sorry I had you worried Mam, but I was alright. His Lordship saw me home. I asked him in for a cup of tea."

Bertha Easy managed to tear her eyes away from the supreme ruler of Ankh Morpork and rest them upon her daughter. "The Patrician saw you home."

"Yes, Mam."

"And you invited him in."

"Yes, Mam."

"For a cup of tea."

"Yes, Mam. I mean, he's got to walk all that way back to the Palace."

"I must apologise for keeping your daughter out so late, Mrs Easy," Vetinari told her, "There was an incident in the graveyard of the Temple of Small Gods. Commander Vimes was involved in a fight as he arrested a criminal."

"A fight?" Bertha gripped Mildred's hands, "Oh, Mildred—"

"It's alright, Mam, I was hiding. Nothing happened to me."

"By the time Vimes managed to subdue the man, it was already quite late. I often go to the cemetery to... contemplate. Such a peaceful place, so rare in this city," the Patrician continued, "I came across Mildred as she finished cleaning your mother's grave. I simply could not have her making her way alone across the city at so late an hour."

Bertha Easy looked at Lord Vetinari for a long moment, first at his face, then at the lilac sprig pinned to his robe. She nodded slightly. She had a rough idea (albeit a very, very rough one; this was Vetinari, after all) of the sort of things he might be contemplating, on this day, in Small Gods.

"Well, my Mam always said you was a proper gentleman, your Lordship," she said finally, "And our Gran was usually always right, eh, Mildred? Thank you, sir."

Vetinari bowed slightly, "It was entirely my pleasure, Mrs Easy."

Mildred's mother clapped her hands together and made to get up from the chair, "Right then. Tea was it, your Lordship?"

The Patrician was impressed. Mrs Easy had dragged herself from shock, then through curiosity and straight on to businesslike hospitality in the space of five seconds. He knew many upper class women who would be in prostrating hysterics for less.

Mildred gently set her mother back down, "Oh, no you don't. I invited him in, so I do all the running about, Mam." She turned to Vetinari, "Oh, sir, I haven't even offered you a seat!"

She pulled out an old, but well repaired armchair, and Vetinari gracefully eased himself into it, keeping the look of relief from his face. His back muscles were definitely protesting most vehemently about the activities of the past hour, with his knees shouting "Yeah, right!" at the back of the crowd. His calf muscles were grumbling sullenly and looking about for rotten fruit to throw.

"No milk or sugar, right, sir?" Mildred knew of his Lordship's beverage preferences after years of helping the housekeeper, Mrs Dipplock, with Vetinari's breakfast tray. There had never been a lot on it.

"No, thank you. I've never understood why people here have taken a delicate fermentation, which has been refined over thousands of years by the Agateans, and put cow's lactations in it. Each to their own, of course."

Mrs Easy grinned, "Milk and three sugars for me, Mildred, love," she looked over at the Patrician as Mildred set the kettle on the stove and attempted to find mugs that weren't chipped, "It's cheap stuff we have, yer Lordship. We put milk and sugar in it to hide the fact that it's probably been swept up from the factory floor."

Vetinari raised his eyebrows, "Indeed? I feel I am in for an adventurous experience, then."

He swept his gaze over the Easy household. Two cramped, but thoroughly clean rooms, he saw a small room with a bed through a doorway at the rear of the main room. A few items of second or third hand furniture; a table, four chairs, the stove; and a small narrow bed, Mildred's, most likely, by the far wall. Mildred had mentioned eight brothers. With them, her parents, her grandmother and herself; twelve people had once lived here together.

The walls were decorated by cuttings from the Times, including that rather amusing caricature of Commander Vimes (even more amusing in view of the fact that Vimes hated it, and had his hatred compounded when Lady Sybil had acquired the original and had it framed), and the now famous cartoon of the little Borogravian soldier kicking the huge Sloblenian Prince in the, er, fruit and veg.

"It's not much, sir, but it's better than what a lot of folk have," sighed Mrs Easy, "Still, it's been a lot easier since the lads moved out – not that I don't miss 'em, mind you – but it's hard trying to get anything done when you've got a bunch of big clumsy boys in your way."

The Patrician covered his mouth with a long hand, reminded of some of the people he had to deal with on a daily basis; "That is a situation I'm afraid I can empathise with all too easily, Madam."

At the stove, Mildred was faced with a difficult decision. She stared at two mugs. Well, she could give Lord Vetinari his tea in a chipped mug, or give him this one...

She bit her lip nervously. Well, hopefully he wouldn't notice, if she gave it to him with that side away from him. She put sugar and milk in two mugs, filled all three with the teapot and took the chosen mug over to the Patrician. She handed it to him with a bright smile.

"Here y'go, sir," she said. As she turned back to fetch her own mug and her mother's, she saw the look on Bertha Easy's face. She'd noticed the mug and was trying not to break into a nervous grin.

Vetinari took a cautious sip at the tea, held it in his mouth for a moment, then managed to swallow. His eyes began to water. Water from the Ankh might just taste better. Still, it was warm, and the sharp taste perked him up a little. The Easy women watched him sympathetically.

"I did say it was cheap stuff, your Lordship," Mildred said apologetically. Vetinari took another sip, then pinched his lips between his teeth. They'd gone numb.

"Interesting. The factory floor, you said? An acquired taste, I would imagine." He took another sip, partly because he couldn't quite believe anything could taste so bad, "It does rather wake one up, though. I imagine this is why you are so alert when you begin your shift, Miss Easy."

Mildred nodded and smiled, trying not to look at the yellow mug held in the long, artistic fingers of lord Vetinari. It wasn't that the icon painted on it was offensive or anything like that, it was more that it was so incongruous when seen with the Patrician's austere face hovering above it.

"How's your little dog, sir?" asked Mrs Easy suddenly. Vetinari raised his eyebrows at her, mildly surprised.

"Wuffles? He's quite well, for a dog of his age. He's sixteen, that's about a hundred in dog years, I'm told."

Mrs Easy raised her eyebrows, "One hundred, eh? And a few months ago he was running about and biting those men who broke into your office," she indicated the wall behind her, the Patrician noticed the Times article about Wuffles: "PLUCKY DOG PUTS BITE ON VILLIANS" was pasted on the cheap wallpaper. The picture showed the little terrier in his best arthritic begging pose. He smiled a little.

"And he spent a few days under Foul Ol' Ron's coat. I mean, Foul Ol' Ron. That is one amazing little dog," Bertha shook her head in admiration.

"Indeed he is. I was rather pleased to see he could still be so active; I must confess I thought he was past all that. He seemed to prefer sleeping much of the time in his basket under my desk." Vetinari waved his hand at the cuttings, "I see you take an interest in reported events, Mrs Easy."

"Mildred reads all the stories to us. She doesn't need to use her finger at all." She grinned at her daughter as Mildred covered her eyes in embarrassment, "Really smart girl, our Milly."

"Mam."

"Well, it's true, you are smart. You're the only one in the family that can read. Always got her nose in a book she has, sir. Well, whenever she can get a book. You were so pleased when they started the Times up, weren't you?"

"Well, it was nice to get something to read every day," Mildred fiddled with a loose piece of cloth on her armchair with an air of mortification as the Patrician watched her, "And it's only a couple of pence."

"Good pictures, too," her mother added, "And you can use it in the privy when you're done reading it."

Vetinari rose an eyebrow at Mildred, who had her face in her hands once more; "Indeed, yes. Mr deWorde does great things for the Public Interest. I am sure he'll be most delighted to hear that his paper is of use to the public long after they have read it." Mildred pulled a hand away from her eyes and clapped it over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

He was telling himself that it was getting quite late, or more accurately rather early; and that he had things to attend to back at the Palace. Running the rumbustous city of Ankh Morpork was very nearly a twenty-four hour, seven-days-a-week job, and Lord Vetinari would be the first to admit (but only to himself) that he was a dedicated workaholic. And Drumknott would be beginning to worry by now. But the chair felt very comfortable, and his knees had gone on strike. Besides, watching Mildred and her mother was enjoyable, gentle entertainment

He drained the last of the— for want of a better word— tea, and summoned the discipline that had served him well through his years in the Assassin's Guild and in the Office of Patrician.

"I'm most grateful for your hospitality, Mrs Easy, but I'm afraid I must return to the Palace," he placed the mug on the table nearby and began to pull himself upright. Then he caught sight of the front of the mug. With absolutely no expression on his face, he picked it up and looked at it. It looked back.

"My goodness, what a cheerful mug," he finally said, looking over at Mildred, who had taken a sudden intense interest in the floorboards, "One might even say— jolly."

"Sorry, Milord," she mumbled, "It was the only one that wasn't chipped."

"Oh, no need to apologise. I rather like it," Vetinari set the bright yellow mug, with the cheerful, and yes, jolly smiley face on the front, back onto the table.

"You can keep it if you like, yer Lordship, we've got loads of spare ones now all the lads have left," said Mrs Easy, ignoring her daughter's frantic hand signals. The Patrician took up the mug once more and studied it, looking thoughtful. Then a small smile crept onto his lips.

"Yes, I would rather like to keep it, Mrs Easy. Thank you, most kind."

Mrs Easy nodded happily and took it from him, "I'll just get a bit of paper to wrap it up in, sir, won't be a tick." As she moved into the back room, Mildred, stunned, crept over to the Patrician.

"You really want to keep it, sir?"

"Why, yes. I believe it may brighten up the atmosphere of my office considerably, don't you think?" He watched her carefully.

Mildred looked up at Lord Vetinari, and thought of him sitting at his huge desk in the Oblong Office, receiving all those important people, with his long sharp face and his forbidding reputation; and those people trying to be serious and persuasive...

And they'd be confronted by that mug.

Mildred's face opened up in a large, appreciative grin, "Oh. Right, sir, I see what you mean."

Vetinari nodded, "Quite so. This has been a most interesting evening, Miss Easy. I thank you for the tea."

"You'll be the first one who did, Milord. Thanks for walking me home, sir, it was really kind of you. Even if it didn't happen," her grin widened, "I'll talk to Mam, but she won't say anything, she's not one for gossip."

"No, I'm not," Bertha Easy appeared beside Mildred and handed the wrapped mug to Vetinari, "But I'll be very smug knowing something the neighbours don't. Will you be alright getting back yourself, sir?"

"Oh, yes, I believe so. I shall use a very discreet route." He saw Mildred grin again.

Just outside the door he paused and looked around the street, "Tell me, Lord Rust owns this street, does he not?"

Mrs Easy gave him a puzzled smile, "Yes, sir, he does."

Lord Vetinari gazed at the street again, then smiled. "Interesting. My thanks once more, Mrs Easy. Good night to you both."

The Easy women watched the tall, gaunt figure stalk silently along the street until it disappeared into the shadows at the far end. Then they went back inside, closed the door and looked at each other.

"Well!" said Bertha. Mildred nodded, the whole night playing through her head again. Even with his Lordship only gone a couple of seconds, she felt hard pressed to believe any of it had actually happened.

"He seems quite a nice man, really. Bit quiet, though."

"Hmm."

"Not bad looking in his way, either," Mrs easy continued refelectively, "Seems a shame he's never found a nice lady."

He didn't even seem to have any friends, either, Mildred thought. Except maybe Mr Vimes, and that was stretching the concept of "friend" more than a bit. Vetinari didn't seem to want any friends, but Mildred still couldn't feel a little sad about that.

"Still," Bertha looked over at Mildred, a mischievious look in her eyes, "He did escort you home. Very— courtly. You never know—"

"Mam!"

Bertha Easy chuckled and patted her daughter on the shoulder, "Only joking, Milly lass, only joking."

Chapter Text

At the best of times, Commander Vimes found it hard to look directly at Lord Vetinari whenever he stood before his desk in the Oblong Office. His eyes were always fixed at a spot on the wall about a foot above and roughly six inches to the left of the Patrician's head. Most coppers reporting to their superiors tend to do this, especially when they're trying not to let their superiors know what's really going on. Pointless excerise with Vetinari, but at least Vimes could say he tried.

He was finding it extremely difficult this morning. It had started off well enough; he'd given a report on the execution of Carcer (and he took grim pleasure at having seen that cheery little smile finally wiped off the bastard's face), and Vetinari had given him some good news about Dragon King of Arms. That was one arrogant git who wasn't going to poison a candle again, not floating in a jar in the depths of space. A tiny part of him suspected that the enthusiastic vampire hunter responsible had been sent by Vetinari himself, but he wasn't going to try and find out. Basking in the warmth of the memory of holding his son Sam that morning before he came here, Vimes reckoned that such things could stay in the dark.

Something was bothering him, though. There was something wrong about the office, like on of those "What's wrong with this iconograph?" puzzles in the Times. A picture, perfectly normal but for one tiny thing. It took him a while to figure out what it was, but when he did, it held his full attention.

There was a mug on Lord Vetinari's polished mahogany desk, sitting on a coaster next to the man's black clad elbow.

A mug.

In Vimes' experience, thanks to his time with Sybil, aristocrats like Vetinari did not drink from mugs. Those paper-thin china teacups, yes, or exquisitely carved crystal glasses. Not mugs. Certainly not garishly bright yellow ones, either.

But that really wasn't the most confusing thing about it.

There was a smiley face painted on the front of the mug. A simple circle, with two dots for eyes and an upward curving line for a smile. That jolly little face that usually appeared on shop assistants name badges imploring you to have a nice day. That was what was on this mug. This mug, that was sitting on the desk of Lord Vetinari, who generally didn't seem to give a damn if people were having a nice day or not.

Vimes felt his eyes being repeatedly drawn back to it, just to check if he had really seen it there. And it was. Half full of the expensive Klatchian coffee the Patrician seemed to be fuelled by.

"Is something the matter, Commander?"

Sam Vimes fell back on something warm and familiar, his single syllable all-in-one question, answer and shield whenever he spoke to the Patrican; "Sir?"

"Do you have something in your eyes? They appear to be twitching," Lord Vetinari, not taking his own eyes from Vimes' face, picked up the mug and took a small sip from it. Vimes' eyes flickered to the mug, snapped back to the wall and then were involuntarily dragged back again.

"No, sir. Um—" he couldn't stand it. He had to at least make some sort of comment, try and figure out just how and why the damn thing was there...

"That's a very nice mug, sir," he finally managed. Vetinari glanced down at the mug and raised his eyebrows, as if he'd only just seen it for the first time.

"This? Yes, it is rather nice, isn't it? Very professional glazing, I thought."

"Glazing," Vimes repeated tonelessly. Bloody hell...

"Hmm. The colour is quite vivid, too. It certainly reflects well on the craftsmanship available in the city, don't you think, Commander?"

"Craftsmanship," said Vimes, "Right." He looked hopelessly at the mug again, "It's really, um— cheerful."

"Indeed?"

"You could even say it was— jolly."

The Patrician turned the mug around in his slim fingers and studied the smiley face. Then his calm blue eyes rolled up to Vimes' face, "Hmm, yes. I daresay you could. Rather brightens the atmosphere, don't you think?"

It dawned on Vimes suddenly that the reaction he'd had itself was the reason for all this. With his head still full of Sybil and little Sam, he hadn't twigged. Vetinari made a habit of keeping people off balance. Lord Havelock Vetinari was not the type of man who would own a smiley face mug. So when you came in and saw the smiley face mug...

Vimes rubbed a hand over his eyes, "Oh. I get it." The Patrician gave one of his small smiles.

"Yes, Commander. Well done." And then he did it again; springing into another topic while everyone else was still getting over the previous one. Vetinari began to sift through his papers, "I am sure you wish to go home to your family, Vimes, so I will only detain you a moment longer. There is the matter of—"

There was a polite knock on the door to the office, Drumknott put his head around it with the Patrician's summons; "Miss Easy is here, my lord."

"Ah, yes. Send her in please."

Vimes watched, confused, as Mildred Easy was ushered in by Vetinari's head clerk. The girl didn't seem frightened or uneasy, just puzzled. She smiled at Vimes.

"Ah, Miss Easy. So kind of you to come in on your day off. I trust I am not interrupting anything of importance?"

Mildred smiled and curtsied, "Um, no sir, just the washing up." Her eyes found the mug and stayed there. Vimes waited for the look of confusion and worry, but her grin only got wider.

"Please take a seat. I shall be with you in just a moment; Commander Vimes and I have one more thing to attend to."

Vimes' head turned from Mildred back to Vetinari. His coppering instinct had switched on and was clamouring. Something was going on here. The Patrician was up to something. Well he was always up to something, him being Vetinari. If there was a personification of Being Up To Something, he would be it. But for as long as Vimes had known him, the Patrician had never had any of his domestic staff in for an interview before. And Mildred was calm. He remembered her in those awful days just after her gran and little brother had died, thinking that he'd come to arrest her at their funeral, for the god's sake, jumpy and apologetic. Yet she was, sitting prim and patient in Vetinari's office (and he'd make anyone jumpy), just waiting for them to finish. Something was definately up, here.

The Patrician had resumed his hunt through the landscape of paper upon his desk, "Now, where was it— Ah," he held up a sheet. "Yes. Cockbill Street."

"What?" said Vimes. He heard Mildred breathe in sharply behind him.

Lord Vetinari ran his eyes over the paper, "Yes. Lord Rust paid me a call this morning with some rather distressing news. Apparently it has been brought to his attention that as landlord, he has the right and the— responsiblity for the maintenance of the properties he owns throughout the city."

He sighed, sitting back and steepling his fingers, a sure sign of trouble as far as Commander Vimes was concerned; "Unfortunately, due to his heavy investment in the recent— misunderstanding with Klatch, he does not possess the funds to complete the repairs Cockbill Street rather desperately needs. He was most distressed at this state of affairs; he's been so busy recently he had not realised the true extent of the problem. The only option, it seems, is to sell the tenancy to someone who has the funds and the, ah, appreciation of the situation in Cockbill Street. I promised him I would find a suitable candidate as quickly as possible."

He looked up into Sir Samuel Vimes' eyes. Sir Samuel Vimes, who was married to the richest woman in the city. Sam Vimes, who'd grown up in Cockbill.

Vimes groaned and covered his eyes, "You've bloody gone and done it again."

The Patrician raised his eyebrows, "I'm sorry?"

"Dartboard." He watched Vetinari cover his mouth. "Dammit. Allright, I'll need to talk to Sybil, but I'm sure it won't be a problem. I'll buy Cockbill. There, happy now?"

Vetinari's hand was still covering his mouth, "Why, Sir Samuel, what an unexpected gesture. Thank you, Lord Rust will be most relieved." His eyes flickered over to Mildred. It was a small movement, barely lasting a second, but Vimes noticed it. He turned to look at Mildred. She was staring at Lord Vetinari, her face open in shock. Suspicion bloomed again. Little facts clicked into place.

"Mildred?"

She blinked and looked up at him, "Yes, Mr Vimes?"

"Where were you at eleven o'clock last night?"

"Um," Mildred, glanced over at Lord Vetinari, who gave a small nod, "I was at Small Gods, Mr Vimes."

"Of course. Up cleaning Flora's grave, right?" Vimes sighed, "You heard us, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mr Vimes. Sorry."

"Miss Easy understands the situation, Sir Samuel. We can rely on her discretion. I also have her to thank for this charming mug, " the Patrician raised it as if giving her a toast, "It's been most useful."

"You gave him that mug?"

Mildred grinned weakly. Her head was still spinning around the news of Cockbill, "Um, not really. Mam did."

"It was quite late when I encountered Miss Easy," Vetinari said, "She was quite understandably in some shock. I decided to escort her home."

"You did what?"

"I couldn't allow her to walk through the city alone at that time of night, Vimes."

Vimes stared at him, "Let me see if I've got this straight. You gallivanted halfway across this city, with out a damn guard, after midnight, with a maid."

"And was very kindly treated to a cup of tea by Miss Easy and her mother. Which reminds me," Vetinari took a small package out of one of the mysterious drawers in his desk, "Would you be so kind as to give this to your mother with my regards, Mildred?"

She staggered over and took it from him, "What is it, sir?"

"A rare blend of tea from Agatea. I thought she might enjoy it, " Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "She is not, under any circumstances, to put milk in it. That is an order."

Mildred grinned, "Right you are, sir. Um, was this what you wanted to see me about?"

"Ah, no. Not quite," he picked up another piece of paper. Mildred and Vimes watched it warily.

"I have been considering having Mrs Dipplock delegate some of her duties to others. She is of course a wonderful housekeeper, but I know she has been troubled of late by some debilitating attacks of rheumatism. I suggested to her that perhaps her task of tidying and dusting this office could be given to you."

"Me?"

"Indeed. The hubwards wing of the Palace is admirably free of dust, thanks to your efforts. I am sure you will apply such diligence here. Your salary will reflect your new duties, I believe it will be an extra ten dollars a week."

"Uh, um, w-what about Mrs Dipplock?" she said, while inside her head she heard 'Ten dollars extra a week! Ten dollars! Ten!'

"She was most pleased, I am glad to say. She is also due a raise this year, I believe."

More money for less work, Mildred managed to think. Of course she'd be pleased.

Ten dollars!

Vimes folded his arms, "Is this a little reward for discretion?"

"An understanding of the circumstances, Commander. And talent. Miss Easy has a love of reading. I thought perhaps she might also help the clerks with filing and some other small duties," he steepled his fingers once more and regarded Mildred over the top of them, "It is, of course, entirely up to you whether or not you accept, Mildred."

She looked back at him. Ten dollars extra a week would, well, it would make a hell of a difference. Her Mam would be over the moon. And she was intrigued by the prospect of getting a front row seat, as it were, of the political theatre in Ankh Morpork. The chance to watch this strange, complex man do what he did best. The chance to pick up some new skills by helping out Mr Drumknott and the other clerks. The chance to make her life a damn sight more interesting than it had ever been.

Ten bloody dollars a week!

Mildred took a deep breath; "It sounds really interesting, Milord. I'd like to give it a go."

"Capital. I look forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow, Mildred. Report to Drumknott at nine o'clock. Now, I am sure you wish to enjoy the rest of your days off, and I know you will want to return to your family, Commander. Do give my best wishes to Lady Sybil."

"Thank you sir, I will. And I'll go and see Rust about the deeds to Cockbill tomorrow morning," Vimes shook his head, but inside he was grinning ferally. Getting Cockbill off bloody Rust. He was going to enjoy this... He and Vetinari locked gazes, and Vimes saw the briefest flicker of amusement there.

"Good. Lord Rust shall be most relieved, I am sure." He sat back in his severe chair and pulled the next stack of paper work toward him, "Don't let me detain you."

Vimes saluted, Mildred curtsied, and they both walked in stunned silence to the door.

Lord Vetinari looked up at the door after they were gone and smiled. Then he winced, and shifted his position to ease his back. He picked up the dragon headed speaking tube, and asked Drumknott to go and see if Mrs Dipplock could spare any of her rheumatic ointments.

The next time he encountered any young ladies in need of an escort, he decided firmly, he would get them a carriage.

Mildred wandered along the streets of Ankh Morpork without really looking where she was going, which isn't advisable. She just about managed to navigate the traders, carts and small fist fights through the veils of shock.

Bloody, bloody hell. Vimes had Cockbill. They probably wouldn't be able to move with all the repair work that would start. She was going to get ten extra dollars a week. And she was going to be in the same room as Lord Vetinari nearly every day from now on. It was going to be— very interesting.

She stopped as two carts collided on the road ahead, and watched as the argument escalated into violence. She sighed. Even if the Watch turned up, the obstruction probably wouldn't be shifted in a hurry. An appreciative crowd was already developing around the scuffling carters, blocking the way further. She'd have to double back and go round another way in order to get home...

As Mildred turned, she caught sight of the Palace, white and gleaming in the morning sun. She stared at it for a full two minutes.

Then she looked down a narrow alleyway nearby, and found it empty. She strolled along it until she found a handy out house with a low sloping roof. She gathered up her skirts.

She grinned.

She started to climb.