I seem to have a fixation with Vetinari and rumours! The Vetinari bit I knew about...
Anyway, it all belongs to the marvellous Pterry, characters and locations alike.
Enjoy!
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There were rumours, of course. There were always rumours, and most of them were true.
This one, though, was not. It was so incredible that people knew even as they passed it on that it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. The present Patrician was just not that sort of man.
Some of the others, now... Mad Lord Snapcase, for one, they could have believed it of him. That was just the sort of thing that Snapcase would have done. But Vetinari?
No, it was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Ludicrous. Nonsense. But still there was just that tiny flicker of doubt in their minds that kept them passing it on. After all, most rumours were true...
Vetinari raised a delicate eyebrow as Cumbling Michael finished his report.
"Well," he said, steepling slim fingers and putting them to his lips, "there seems to be no end to human invention. So they are saying that, and believing it? I would not have credited it for a moment. Show Mr. Michael out."
As Drumknott closed the door behind the shambling beggar, the Patrician stared into space. So. It had come at last to this.
He unfolded his gaunt length from the upright wooden chair and walked deliberately to the drinks cupboard. All these years it had been there, and he had never once been tempted. Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.
He took a large glass and studied the bottles. He had not drunk for years. He could not drink what he had drunk with his love... but the aim was not the same. Now he wished only that he might blot out the realisation.
Gin. He poured a careful half-finger into the glass and reached for the tonic-water.
Habit. What had he last drunk gin and tonic? And yet the habit prevailed. He didn't want gin! Gin was too much part of his former life.
What would Vimes have drunk? Whisky, without a doubt. The whisky he had was far too good for Vimes, but it would suffice.
Wasting the gin appalled his tidy mind. Cautiously he returned it to the bottle and took down the rich saffron spirit.
He gently poured a little, then suddenly something seemed to snap. Whisky was sloshed into the glass until it was half empty, then he put the bottle down with hands that trembled just a little and surveyed his work.
It was paler decanted, soft straw, not Baltic amber, and lighting the clouded crystal with a sulphur glow. He never remembered lifting the glass and drinking greedily, but he did remember that, a second later, it was empty.
Liquid fire traced its path through his throat and chest. There was no water in the cupboard.
He felt no different and cursed his rigid control. It was easier to pour the second glass, and the third seemed just to appear. The fourth too went the way of all whisky.
He was reaching again for the bottle when he heard steps on the stairs. Suddenly it all seemed terribly funny.
Vimes heard the giggle and rushed in, silly truncheon at the ready, all etiquette forgotten. Nobody sane or sober could laugh like that. Who was in the Oval Office - and what had they done with the Patrician?
He found Vetinari leaning against his desk and giggling uncontrollably. The Patrician pointed unsteadily at Vimes and then, as if knocked off-balance by the motion, slipped. His heels slid across the polished stone until his bony body hit the floor with a thump. From his ignominious position he pointed again and tried to say something.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked Vimes, thereby earning himself a medal for the Most Stupid Question Ever Asked*. Vetinari giggled again and Vimes sniffed, then saw the half-empty bottle on the table.
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*Not the gold medal, of course. That went to Carrot who, upon seeing his Commander struggling with the semaphore helmets that had preceded pigeons as police intercoms, had asked whether standing in the middle of the street where his message would be received would help. Viems had been calling for help in salvaging seven houses being blown down by the biggest typhoon in the ancient wizards' memories at the time.
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"Oh gods, sir..."
He picked it up, then put it back down. "What in the hells have you done, sir?"
"Drun'... 't," the Patrician began, and even with his long experience of dwarfs on number 9s Vimes could hardly make out the words.
"Sir, I... I... in the name of all the gods, why?"