Author's Note: This odd piece jumps from the aftermath of Night Watch to the aftermath of Jingo, and deals with Havelock Vetinari and Rosie Palm, both young and old. It is hardly romantic, more of reflective. I've always thought Rosie Palm an interesting staple character who is very seldom written about.
Seamstresses Have Long Memories
It was a dark and stormy night.
The above was purely for the sake of melodrama. In truth, the moon made the darkness more of a dimness, and the rain had been fine, and had stopped two hours ago. Still, the rooftop tiles were still wet and slippery, and it was easy to break a leg on the aftermath of a rain.
The figure skimmed across the rooftops, darting from chimney to chimney, feet gaining sure purchase on the dryer tiles. From the speed and agility with which he moved, one could tell that he was an Assassin, or something close, except that Assassins normally dressed in black silk, and this particular one was wearing watered grey that melded like liquid into the surroundings. He flitted almost like a shadow, soundless, frictionless, gone.
Havelock Vetinari stopped in the shade of a stone wall, where it met the tiles of the roof below, and leaned against it for a breather. The alley below him was dark and silent. Water rushed somewhere underneath him through gutters and drains. He could love nights like this, if he ever allowed himself preference, when the moon was bright enough for a sharp-eyed Assassin to go for a run on the rooftop routes, when he could run without the pressure of an appointment with death, for the sheer pleasure of being able to run, revelling in his speed, the energy in his limbs, his invisibility to the world below.
He shut his eyes, and let the world grow calm about him.
It stayed like that for nearly ten minutes, and then there was a scream.
Havelock's eyes shot open. It came again, and his trained ears pinpointed the sound as coming from three alleys to his left. He sprang back to his feet silently, and began to run again. He was curious as to what was going on – a dangerous act in Ankh-Morpork for the average person, but not for him.
In the alley, a struggle was going on between a young woman and two very drunk men. They had to be very drunk, because it was clear from the woman's dress and handbag that she was a seamstress, and no sane man would attack a seamstress within ten miles of the Shades, not if they feared the vengeance of the Agony Aunts.
The woman was putting up a fierce fight, but she was outnumbered, and it wouldn't be long before she was overpowered. She screamed again, and Havelock vaguely wondered where the Agony Aunts had gone off to – but no doubt they couldn't be everywhere at once.
Normally he didn't take any interest in the affairs of seamstresses, but even if the Agony Aunts did hear they would be too late. Havelock flicked his wrists, feeling the wrist-blades unsheath with a sleek sound, and then jumped off the roof into the alley.
It was over in a few seconds; he didn't even need to use the blades. Havelock removed his hand from one of thedrunk'snecks, and rose to his feet, to come face to face with the seamstress he had saved.
She wasn't particularly pretty, but there was an attractive pull about her – what seamstresses called the 'X' factor. In the tradition ofstreetwalkers she wore a low-cut dress, but she had laid low on the cosmetics and the hair, so she had not been expecting clientele tonight. She had a no-nonsense jaw and a rather sharp look – she appeared intelligent, for a woman of her profession.
She looked vaguely familiar.
The woman brushed herself off, and then looked at him with the calculating look of a seamstress. "Are you an assassin, sir?"
Havelock decided there was no point in lying, even to a seamstress. "Only a student."
She nodded. "For what you did back there…thanks."
He bowed. "It was not a problem, Miss – "
"Palm. Rosemary Palm."
Ah. He'd heard that name before. Come to think of it, he'd seen her at his aunt's house too, several times, although only in passing. She was one of his aunt's cronies, part of Roberta Meserole's silken political web. No wonder she had seemed familiar.
"I think," said Rosemary Palm, "I should know the name of my saviour."
No point in lying there, either. "Havelock Vetinari."
"Ah, you would be Madam's nephew, isn't it so?"
He nodded, and then glanced up sharply, as the shadows shifted, and two black figures came into view.
"We heard you screaming, dearie," said one, swinging idly a handbag. "Is there a problem, Rosie?"
"We hurried, we did," shrilled the other. "And as to you, kind sir……"
"Dotsie, Sadie, it's all right," Rosie assured them. "It was only two drunks. This gentleman…helped me."
The Agony Aunts relaxed, though it was hardly visible. "Ah," said Sadie, her voice crackling. "We owe you a courtesy, kind sir."
"And does he want anything in return, dearie?" prodded Dotsie.
Rosie turned to face him. "Is there anything I can do for you in return?" she said, coolly. "Free night? Client list? Just that I don't like to owe favours too long, that's all."
"No thank you," replied Havelock. "I confess to no particular interest in the service your profession provides. I shouldn't like to…press your affections."
Rosie laughed, sardonically. "I see. One of those noble attitudes, isn't it? Well, if that's settled, then I'll be going back to my lodgings. Don't worry, it's not far, and the Aunts will escort me."
"Of course, dearie."
"Let's be going, Rosie. Good evening, kind sir."
The Aunts shuffled off into the night. Rosie moved to follow them, but turned back to him. "I won't forget this, Havelock Vetinari. There's a lot more I can offer, apart from what an ordinary seamstress can give. And we have long memories."
Havelock bowed again. "Good evening, Miss Palm."
He watched her walk down the alley, slipping into the habitual seamstresses' sway. Once she had turned the corner after the Aunts, he took the wall at a running jump, bounded onto the roof, and melted away into the night, in his own fashion.
Lord Havelock Vetinari did not turn from the view at the window, even as his clerk slipped into the Oblong Office and laid the daily delivery of paperwork on his desk. "Good morning, Drumknott."
"Good morning, sir. How was your time in Klatch?"
"Oh, most interesting, Drumknott. The war was really a rather fascinating insight into the mindsets of our near neighbour. And of course, the finish was truly satisfactory."
"Ah." Drumknott shuffled some of the paperwork. "Lord Rust tried to have you executed for treason, sir."
"I know," said the Patrician simply. "He yelled it in my face." He turned and sat down at his desk. "Tell me, Drumknott, about the warrant for my arrest. Was it signed by all the guilds?"
"All the major guild leaders signed it, sir." Drumknott hesitated, and went on, "Except for Queen Molly of the Beggars. And Mrs. Palm of the Seamstresses."
"I see." Lord Vetinari flicked through his collection of pens, selected one and began to deal with his paperwork. "Well, it would seem we still have allies among the guilds of this city. That will be all, Drumknott, thank you."
When Drumknott had left, Lord Vetinari reached into the pile of paper and extracted an especially interesting document; the warrant for his arrest. Indeed, two familiar signatures were missing from it.
He thought of Mrs. Palm. In his mind's eye he saw her as she was now, and then altered the image to a younger woman, ruffled but still dignified, in a dark alley after the rain.
Seamstresses do have long memories.
End
