Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld, I don't own its characters, I just write this for fun.

Many, many thanks to eeyore9990 for the beta-reading! Any remaining mistakes mine.

Chosen of the Gods

Vimes tried to shake off the faint dizziness as, after a longer than usual wait in the anteroom, his ears failed to convince his mind that the irregular "tick-tock" of the clock had stopped.

"Ah, Vimes." The Patrician looked at him from over his joined fingers in that annoying way of his that made you feel he knew everything you were going to say before you even thought of it.

Vimes straightened up.

"I'm here about Moist von Lipwig."

"I believe his case is closed," said Vetinari, immediately, in a tone of finality that suggested that if this was news to his interlocutor, he would be well advised to now consider it fact. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with, Commander."

Vimes could have said a lot about 'nothing for him to concern himself with' when it came to apparently reformed crooks, but he concentrated on another thought: so Vetinari had guessed what he was here for, and wasn't going to tell him anything. He tried it anyway:

"I know. I want to know what exactly happened after his hanging."

"I'm sure you heard about the trial, Vimes."

"At the trial, you said that when he was about to be buried, it was found that the so-called Albert Spangler was still alive, is that correct?"

Vetinari stared at him very fixedly. It wasn't really a threatening stare, though it was an easy mistake to make. It was a stare that suggested that Vetinari could continue to look at him until the end of time. Vimes belatedly realised that he had automatically fallen into routinely interrogative voice. Damn.

"Yes, I think so," Vetinari eventually answered. "But I believe we've had this discussion already, Vimes."

"Really, sir? I can't remember."

Which wasn't even much of a lie; after all, he didn't think that Vetinari telling him that if he didn't want to believe the gold that was standing in his cell was sent by the gods, he was free to deal with the angry priests and the nine hundred and thirty-eight people who claimed it was theirs, and did he want to get to arrest Reacher Gilt or not? counted as a discussion.

"How unfortunate."

Vimes drew a breath.

"Does that kind of thing happen often? People staying alive after they've been hanged?

"Drumknott?" said the Patrician, without ceasing to look at him.

The clerk, a silent presence beside the desk, looked up.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Please have the statistics about hangings over the last, oh, ten years sent to Pseudopolis Yard."

"Yes, my lord."

"I don't need the last – " Drumknott had already disappeared, " – ten years," Vimes finished uselessly. "So it did happen before."

Vetinari steepled his fingers, which was never a good sign.

"I would imagine so, considering there is even a law on how to deal with the problem. I'm sure Captain Carrot could quote the text for you if he were here now. Speaking of Captain Carrot, I would appreciate if he'd stop pestering the hangman."

"Captain Carrot isn't pestering anyone," Vimes snapped tightly.

"That is good to hear," said Vetinari, and didn't even sound sarcastic. "Now, if that was all you wanted..."

Vimes knew an opening for retreat when he saw one; after all, Vetinari had sent him paperwork, which had to mean that apparently he was still angry about him enrolling his costs inspector.

"Drumknott?" he asked the clerk, who had followed him to the next room, on his way out.

"Yes, your grace?"

"Are you a criminal?"

The clerk gave him a puzzled look.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Just checking."

xxx

"None that I'm aware of, sir." Angua held Vimes gaze. "I wouldn't lie about this to you."

"Yes, fine." Vimes sighed irritably. Not that he didn't understand why Angua held the right to a certain privacy in high regards, but – either you were a watch... person, or you weren't, and if you were, you left other loyalties and beliefs behind. The job was complicated enough as it was.

"... and before that, he was an assistant in the department for nautical development," came Carrot's voice from behind a huge pile of papers.

"Was he born a clerk?"

"Er." There was a hesitation from Carrot's end, before he said, "I don't think our information goes back that far but I can –"

"No, that's fine!" Vimes said quickly. "What about Umbring and Tuor?"

"You said they were dark clerks," Carrot said sceptically.

"Right. And we know that killing for money isn't a crime," said Vimes bitterly.

"I think," Carrot remarked, "that reintegrating criminals and giving them a chance to work for the betterment of society is a worthy goal."

"If it's a worthy goal, why is he being so underhanded about it?"

"Maybe he was only trying to give Mr Lipwig a chance at a fresh start?"

Vimes stared. It wasn't that Carrot was stupid. It wasn't like he'd settle for that thought and stop investigating – but he was actually serious. And the fact that he was fully ready to extend his belief in the goodness of people to the Patrician occasionally made Vimes' head spin.

"I wouldn't call being set up against Reacher Gilt much of a fresh start. Look," he added, because he was beginning to feel like a jerk, and it was an unpleasant feeling in Carrot's presence, "it's not that I mind him not being dead. But if convicted criminals are going to run around under a false name after their hanging, I'd like to know."

"Did you try talking to Lipwig?" asked Angua.

Vimes gloomily stared at the desk, with the doomed look of a fun-hating man about to be dragged to a carnival.

"I guess it can't hurt to try?"

xxx

It was night-time when Vimes arrived. Moist, who had been supervising the putting on of the banners – the bank was organising a "Saving Day", during which the bank would encourage people to give them money by giving everyone who put any amount of money on their account a small present – and was now contemplating the finished work, saw him walk down the street in what he'd learnt to recognise as policeman-walk. That didn't bode well.

Dealing with Vimes wasn't pleasant. There were certain kinds of people who, when presented with a genuine diamond ring and shown how it could cut glass, would set fire to it to make sure, and call you a crook of it didn't burn. There was no fooling them, because they were expecting it all the time. It was horrible to encounter those kind of people as policemen. To make things worse, Vimes was rich enough to be able to afford burning diamonds.

Still, Moist had learned a few things, which was why he greeted the watchman with a slightly worried "Commander Vimes"; the man hated to be reminded of his titles. Moist had often encountered people, ancient and still rich nobility for the most part, who insisted on being treated as equals; most of the time, however, they were people who had had their privileges for so long that they had forgotten they were privileges, and acted quite surprised and offended when others noticed them, whereas Vimes had only recently been elevated, and seemed to resent it immensely. And looking just a little bit nervous was always safer, especially if you'd recently admitted to being a crook. Anything else would just arouse suspicion.

"What can I do for you?"

Vimes smiled at him in a slightly worrying manner that conveyed that he wasn't fooled.

"I want to ask you a few questions about the death of Albert Spangler."

Moist instinctively raised his hand to his neck; it was a good move, he decided. It looked authentic, and, coincidentally, was.

"He – I was hanged," he said briefly. "I'm sure you know that."

"Could you give me a few more details?"

"Look, is there a reason for this enquiry?" Moist snapped. He didn't have to deal with this! Vetinari's version of the events of his "death" were as good as an official pardon, and he'd earned that much too, damn it! "Because, I've had a long day, and it's not exactly a good memory."

Vimes gave him an annoyed, tired look that quite clearly said: you don't know what "having a long day" means, but I'll be happy to let you find out if you make mine worse.

Moist swallowed.

"Look, there were a few hundred other people there," he said. "You can ask them."

"I don't mean the hanging itself, and you know it. Now, how did you escape?"

"I didn't!" Moist snapped; he was rather tired of people ('people' meaning Vetinari, until now) bringing it up like it was a minor inconvenience. "It happened! I just didn't die!"

"And this was discovered when you were about to be buried?"

"Yes! I don't know! I wasn't actually conscious! Can we talk about something else? Would you like to open an account with us? We can offer really good interest rates. Really bad ones too, if you like that better."

"I'm not taking bribes," said Vimes, looking just a little bit confused (Moist had to make an effort not to roll his eyes. Richest person in Ankh-Morpork, and knew nothing about banking. Some people got all the luck).

"I'm just trying to change the subject!"

Vimes reached in his pocked for a cigar and lit it. Moist fought not to fidget. He knew that his slight panic came across as genuine, at least, even to someone as suspicious as Vimes. He'd become quite good at panic since the whole hanging incident.

"All right," said Vimes, after taking a drag. "So, let's talk about the part after, okay? Where and how did you regain consciousness?"

Moist sighed.

"Palace. Patrician's office."

"And he gave you the job as Postmaster General?"

Moist rather appreciated that the Commander didn't use the word "offered". He didn't feel he'd be up to that right now.

"Yes." Now that they weren't directly on the subject of hanging anymore, he was sobering up a little, and understood what this was about: so the Watch hadn't known until the trial. Maybe they didn't know about the patrician's special arrangements at all. Well. He couldn't tell exactly where this was going, but what he did know for sure was that he didn't want to get involved into any kind of struggle between the two most powerful people in Ankh-Morpork. He enjoyed risk, but one had to chose one's battles, and realise when to run like hell. "That's really all there is to it, Commander."

The thing was, there was a small part of his mind that told him to take the risk, just for the hell if it; he could tell. Or he could, in passing, mention Owlswick Jenkins, just to see where it was leading. And to prove to himself that Vimes wasn't that immunised against con-tricks, and that revealing his name at the trial had not just been playing into Vetinari's hands.

He did his best to shake it off though. He could guess that it would not be long before Vetinari drew the floor away under his feet again. (Metaphorically. Not in the sense of retreating floors above deep pits with spikes. Definitely.) He'd rather enjoy the relatively calm time he had until then, and, maybe, even manage to get married and see his wife four days in a row. The thing was, Vimes was the kind of person who was likely not to let go. He was worse than Sacharissa.

Still, he would have sworn that "wolf" had winked at him...

"Why don't you know this anyway? You have a werewolf! I know who she – "

His mouth clapped shut, and he realised that this was most definitely not the right thing to say. The glare Vimes was directing at him made him recoil. Don't even think about making a threat, it was saying.

"Er, forget what I just said. I know nothing. I never heard about werewolves in the watch. I'm sure there are no werewolves anywhere outside of Überwald! Uhm."

"There are... rumours, about Nobby Nobbs," Vimes finally said, quite pleasantly, though the icy glare was still firmly in place. "They are not founded."

"Right. Sure. Thanks for telling me."

"The Watch does appreciate your discretion on the matter."

"Yes. Of course. I'm great at discretion."

"Are you?"

Moist drew a breath.

"Look, am I being accused of anything? Not dying from hanging? Putting gold into the bank? Because I swear that wasn't me, and I have no idea how –"

"You aren't being accused of anything. On the contrary."

"Huh? Sorry, what's the contrary of – "

"You are entitled to protection from the watch."

Moist recoiled. Well-meaning policemen were as suspect to him as non-nervous criminals were to Vimes, and the fact that, judging by the Commander's face, there had to be a threat implied somewhere in that sentence was almost reassuring. What was this, tell me everything and the watch will protect you? Maybe Vimes could pull this off too. He didn't want the watch's protection. When you got down to it, Vetinari was just a very talented conman, who moved on an even larger scale than Reacher Gilt had. But Vimes was just scary.

"Er. Thank you, Commander. I'll remember that."

xxx

The only sound in the room was the scraping of Vetinari's quill. Drumknott had ushered him inside without a word as soon as he had arrived, and left him to stand in front of the desk. The Patrician had not looked up yet, and Moist was beginning to feel a strong urge to discreetly leave the room again.

At that moment, Vetinari finally put the paper he'd been writing on last on top of a pile, and looked up with a bright smile. It looked, frankly, rather freakish.

"Ah, Mr Lipwig! I was expecting you earlier this morning."

"You were?" Moist blinked. "I didn't have an appointment. Did I?"

"It appears you did," said Vetinari, still smiling.

"Oh." Moist paused, in the hope that the Patrician would say something more. "Eh... Was there anything wrong with my report about the gold we found?"

"Hm? Oh, not at all. I thought that you were more upset than necessary, really. Finding ten tons of gold in the bank vault isn't that much of a tragedy."

Vetinari went on smiling at him. Moist said nothing. In his report, he'd written eight tons.

"Anything about the Saving Day?"

"I did receive a complaint from the merchant's guild, actually. There is concern that the bank giving away things will hurt business."

"It's one day a year! It's just – "

"– but I'm sure you will be able to sort it out to everybody's satisfaction," Vetinari added, still smiling.

Oh, great.

Vetinari leant back on his chair.

"Was there anything you wanted, Mr Lipwig?"

"What? Oh. Yes, actually. I... Commander Vimes has come to ask me questions about Albert Spangler's death."

"Dear me."

"I wondered if you, er, could ask him to stop?"

"Certainly, if that's what you want."

"... you can?"

Now, that had been suspiciously easy. Vetinari leant back forward, resting his arms on the desk.

"Of course. However, I am afraid it would only encourage him."

"... oh."

"He takes his job very seriously, you see."

"I've heard," Moist muttered gloomily. "What am I supposed to tell him?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"You are a very resourceful man, Mr Lipwig. I'm sure you will be able to think of something."

xxx

"Why was I not informed?!"

The Commander of the City Watch stood in his office, fuming, which was a rare sight, surprisingly enough; their early encounters had found Vimes stony and laconic, and of late, they hadn't seen each other very often at all. They could both play out the likely script of their meeting on their own after all, and they both had better things to do with their time than exchange obvious lies.

It was about a week later than the Patrician would have expected, too. Either Vimes must have been busy with other matters, or Moist von Lipwig was even better at stalling than expected.

"Why would you have been informed?" he asked mildly.

"Criminals getting a pardon and a new identity after the execution? That's a practice the City Watch should be told about!"

"I don't think so, no," said Vetinari, just as mildly.

"You found Reacher Gilt!" Vimes went on furiously. "I've had people looking for him all over..." He trailed off, probably remembering just in time that technically, he wasn't supposed to have people looking for anything outside of Ankh-Morpork.

"Mmhm," said Vetinari. He was in favour of the Watch looking for things. It gave them something to do.

Vimes leant on the table to glare at him.

"Where is he now?"

There was an uncomfortable silence that went on until Vimes stepped back.

"As a matter of fact," Vetinari said, ignoring the incident, "he had a tragic accident shortly after he was found. He fell to his death here in the palace. If this is something the City Watch wishes to investigate, I shall not stand in their way, of course."

"Fell to his death," Vimes repeated; he sounded sobered up, not sceptic. "Is Carcer dead?"

"I don't see why he shouldn't be."

Vimes glared.

"That's not what I asked!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"The city," Vetinari answered slowly, "has, on occasion, employed the particular, often unique skills of certain criminals who were lucky enough to survive their execution, and thus might be destined for something – possibly running around in a golden suit and selling stamps, it would appear. I do not think the man you mentioned had such a talent, Vimes. I can guarantee you that he is quite dead."

There was a silence. Vimes was a most reasonable, practical, realistic, and even cynical person; however, he was also quite keen on following the law to the letter as much as possible, as it was a way for him to keep himself in check. The Patrician tried to spare him inner conflict by not burdening him with matters that might provoke it (such a thing would be cruel, and he was anything but), but sometimes, it was difficult to avoid.

"There are," Vimes remarked, after a moment of thinking, in a calmer voice, "laws against blackmail."

"Surely, you are not accusing me of breaking these laws?"

The Commander ought to have let Captain Carrot do this; he was a better negotiator. But a definite stubbornness in refusing certain instruments that were at his disposition was one of his few flaws (and uses).

"I wouldn't know, since all of this has been concealed from the Watch."

"If you wish to supervise future burials of criminals..."

Vimes briefly closed his eyes, and looked as if he was in pain.

"I'll need more people."

"Certainly not. You have already started recruiting for the undergrouds that aren't finished yet."

"We need to train them."

There was a pause. Vimes' gaze wandered to the familiar spot on the wall in self-defence.

"Very well," Vetinari conceded slowly. "I will, however, need another report on your financial situation first. The last inspector's further career casts a certain doubt on the last report, some of the city dignitaries felt."

"Are you," asked Vimes, "questioning my men's integrity?"

"On the contrary," Vetinari said pleasantly.

Vimes opened his mouth and closed it again, and glowered at the wall behind him.

xxx

"Why, though?" asked Drumknott, later, after Vimes had left, refiling the account of the City Watch's new workforce. "You could have just given him the leave his w – he asked for."

Not turning away from the window, Vetinari smiled thinly at the city that lay beneath.

"It'd be uncharitable to let Commander Vimes relax. He wouldn't like it."

AN:

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