AN: I have an odd crush on the Patrician, and Sam Vimes. There's a nice Sam/Sybil relationship here, because I think that's the best, sweetest relationship ever.
Not So Different After All
Vimes stepped into the Patrician's office with his usual irritation.
"I have things to do," he said. "There are two murders that no guild will claim any knowledge of, and there's something going on in the Beggar's Guild that isn't begging."
The Patrician looked down at Vime's feet. "You are dripping on my rug, Commander."
Vimes bristled at the Patrician's tone. It wasn't harsh – merely dismissive.
"I've been working in the rain," he said. "Most of us that don't live in palaces have to do that."
The Patrician ignored his unsubtle jibe and sipped at his wine. The room was always chill in the winter, and even wealth and power couldn't change the weather. Wine warmed his blood a bit. He'd considered having his captive genius make something to warm the palace properly, but it might be too obvious. He didn't want the inventions so visible.
He suppressed a shiver. He didn't want Vimes to see that his old bones were beginning to feel the cold more every year. It didn't do for a master to let his dog see less than complete control.
Vimes shook himself dry like a mastiff, and Vetinari scowled. "You will be more circumspect in the future. That is a Klatchnian rug."
Why do I always have to remind him who is "boss" – as he would put it, Vetinari wondered. He knew the answer. Vimes might accept that he was the Patrician's dog, but even the most loyal dog might snap at times.
Vimes stepped off the rug, but made no other concession to the Patrician's irritation. "I assume you called me for a reason," Vimes said.
The Patrician pointed toward a small, Baroque table nearby. When he saw the blank look on Vime's face he sighed. How can someone so smart be so stupid at the same time? There were some serious laps in Vimes' education, something the Patrician would fix over time.
"It's a chess board," Vetinari said.
"I know what it is," Vimes said. "What does it have to do with me?"
"We're going to play a few games," the Patrician said.
"Are we?" Vimes asked. Vetinari noticed that the deep lines in Vime's forehead were more pronounced than usual, and his eyes were sunken and lined with dark circles. His eyes were always that way, but he almost looked zombie-like at the moment.
"But not tonight," Vetinari said. "I want you to be able to compete properly, and you look like you haven't slept in days."
"It happens," Vimes said. "Crime doesn't sleep."
Neither does Ankh-Morpork, Vetinari thought. He'd more than once employed the art of make-up to cover the evidence of his own nocturnal work. Even at his age he was stronger than most people he knew. Assassins didn't forget their training easily, and he knew that even his political power was weak without the physical stamina to do the massive amount of work required to keep his city running.
Vimes cleared his throat, and Vetinari came out of his private thoughts. "Come back tomorrow night, and sleep first."
When Vimes opened his mouth to speak, but the Patrician stopped him. "Don't argue with me. Do it."
Vimes stomped out, and Vetinari heard the muffled thump of him hitting the wall outside. He could measure how far he'd pushed the emotional man by how violent the sound was, and today he was merely irritated.
Good, Vetinari thought. I want him irritated when he comes back. I want to see how he plays when he isn't quite in control of himself. I'll play him when he's calmer later.
He penned a note to Vime's wife. Such a lovely woman, he thought. She's gracious, naïve, and useful.
The next night Vimes looked more rested. He still looked like leather in a copper's uniform, but that was normal for him.
"I see Sybil got my note," the Patrician said. "You look a bit more human than last night." He allowed himself a sly smile, the kind he knew Vimes hated. He saw Vime's left eye twitch.
"You have a dutiful wife," Vetinari said. "She was quite concerned about you. She also gave my servant a nice recipe for squab pie. I shall have to visit you two soon. It occurred to me that I haven't been out to the manor since Sybil married, and I didn't even give you a wedding present."
"It isn't necessary," Vimes said. "We got enough plate and useless expensive trinkets for four families."
The Patrician barely stopped himself from smiling. It would be the wrong time to do it. Vimes would think he was mocking him, and that didn't play into his plans at the moment. There were times when he genuinely liked the man. He could do a few things that Vetinari didn't dare, and one of those was to flaunt his own disdain for the nobility even as he became one himself. There were times when Vetinari wanted to shake off the burden of Ankh-Morpork. He loved his city, but the muck of it could be overwhelming at times, and he couldn't even allow himself the luxury of a drunken night of forgetfulness.
"Elegantly put, Duke," Vetinari said, forgetting that he didn't want Vimes to think he was mocking him, and enjoying the obvious irritation on Vimes face. The man was just fun to poke occasionally.
He sat at the small table and pointed toward a chair. "Sit," he said. "Would you like some wine, or whiskey perhaps?"
Vimes shook his head. "You know I don't drink anymore," he said.
"Of course – my mistake," Vetinari said. Good, he thought. I wanted to know if he was still "on the wagon", as they say. I won't make use of a drunk.
"I assume you know how the game is played?" Vetinari asked.
"The pawns die, the King is the most important piece, the bishops move diagonally, the Queen does whatever she wants, and the little ponies do tricks," Vimes said.
"And the rooks?" Vetinari asked.
"They make trouble," Vimes said with a grim smile.
So he sees himself as a rook? Vetinari wondered. It made sense. Rooks were the most straight-forward piece, moving in straight lines, never wavering, always honest.
Almost always, Vetinari thought. Vimes was smarter than he liked to let on.
Vimes made a few moves.
Direct and unsubtle, the Patrician thought. I'm disappointed.
As they played he watched Vimes calm and focus, and his game became better. His emotions don't dominate him for long, Vetinari thought.
Vimes lost the game, of course, but by the time the game was over he was playing relatively well. There was no chance a policeman could beat a trained assassin at chess, but…
"Well played, Commander," the Patrician said. "Come by next week."
The Patrician had a long week, as usual. There was too much work for any other man but him. He had trained his mind to maximum efficiency when he was just a young man, but even he grew tired at times.
He'd never let Vimes know that he looked forward to their meetings.
"Why do you want to play chess with me?" Vimes asked. "I really do have things I need to be doing."
"So do I," the Patrician said, "but I decided I need to make more time for my friends."
Vimes eyes narrowed. "Friends?" he asked. "What are you up to? You don't have friends. You have servants and enemies."
And now I take the rook with the King, Vetinari thought. They hadn't started the actual game, but his interactions with Vimes had always been a verbal chess game.
"There are a few people I see as my equals," he said. He sipped his wine, watching Vimes carefully. He had plans for him, and he needed Vimes to accept his words so that he would agree to his plan.
"I have trouble believing that," Vimes said.
"That I consider a few people friends, or that I might actually be human?" the Patrician asked.
"Both," Vimes said.
"Enough chat. Let's play. You take white."
Vimes moved his King pawn forward two spaces.
The Patrician could think three moves ahead, and sometimes four. He studied the board and moved his own King pawn two spaces forward. It wasn't something he'd usually do, but he had a suspicion that Vimes was trying a well-known gambit. He wanted to see what Vimes was trying to do.
Vimes moved his King bishop to attack the black King bishop's pawn.
He's using that move, the Patrician thought. Just as I thought. He's a formidable opponent when he's focused.
He couldn't let Vimes win so soon though, so he took control and won the game easily.
After Vimes left Drumkott came in and quietly put some papers in Vetinari's in-box.
"Vimes might work, with Captain Carrot helping him," the Patrician said.
Drumkott stopped the work of a clerk and began the work of his master's confidant. He didn't say anything. He knew his master just needed a listening ear right now. He didn't need to know what the Patrician was talking about, just that he was serving his master by listening.
"It's time," Vetinari said. He hadn't told Drumkott why Vimes was so important. As much as he trusted his servant, he was always reminded that the man was just a servant. It took a more independent spirit to be considered a companion.
A companion was something he'd never felt a need for until recently, but what he had in mind needed more than the loyalty of a man to his leader. He needed a more personal attachment, and if he was right he could create that in Vimes. The man was hard, but he was notoriously obsessed with the good of the city, and he was rumored to have a soft heart somewhere under that granite exterior.
Much like me, he thought. I doubt he has any idea how very alike we are. If he is my dog then I am Ankh-Morpork's. The only difference is that I'm a pure-bred and he's an alpha-wolf.
"Is there anything else I'm needed for?" Drumkott asked.
"Not at the moment," Vetinari said. "I'm expecting Commander Vimes later. Prepare some coffee when he arrives."
"Shall I prepare the Troll Blend then?" Drumkott asked, making a face.
"It's his preferred brand," Vetinari said. "The watch drinks it, and he's uncomfortable with the visible trappings of wealth."
"And I assume he doesn't know you know this, sir?" Drumkott asked with a small smile.
"Of course not," Vetinari said. "What fun would that be?"
"I always enjoy watching you work, sir" Drumkott said.
Two hours later Drumkott announced Vime's arrival. At least he's dry this time, Vetinari thought as Vimes entered the room. He wore his characteristic scowl.
"What are you playing at?" he asked. "When I got back to headquarters I was told that you had a new dart-board and new uniforms ordered for us."
"I'm going to personally donate to the widows and orphans fund as well," Vetinari said. "I have personal reasons. Does it matter why you are being benefitted?"
"I don't take bribes," Vimes said, "even from you."
"And that's why I chose you," Vetinari said. He left the majority of Vimes' question unanswered on purpose.
Drumkott brought in a silver tray with a single coffee mug, cream, and sugar. Vetinari pointed toward his chair for visitors. "Have a cup of coffee, Commander."
Vimes tasted the coffee and smiled. "It's Old Troll," he said.
"I've heard it's a Watch favorite."
"When we can afford it," Vimes said. He drank another cup, obviously relishing it.
"I'll see what I can do about that," the Patrician said. "I'm going to order a pay increase for the Watch."
Vimes sat the cup down. "Why?" he asked.
"You've all been doing such an extraordinary job."
"And you want me to do something for you," Vimes said. "Isn't that right?"
"It is how things tend to work," the Patrician said. "We could try to deny it, but we are both men of the world, are we not?"
"What is it?" Vimes asked, his voice sounding not so much angry as resigned.
I don't want him to do this grudgingly, Vetinari thought. Something like this needs to be voluntary.
"What would you say if I told you I'm going to give you more leeway? You've wanted that, haven't you? More power?"
He studied Vimes' face and body, using his assassin's training to read everything Vimes was telling him non-verbally.
He's tense, but that's to be expected, Vetinari thought. I don't see any evidence of dishonesty yet. He's not open to me, but he's interested.
"You've never been one to share power before," Vimes said.
"I delegate when necessary," Vetinari said. "It's necessary now."
"Power to do what?" Vimes said.
"I'll explain that later," Vetinari said. "I want you to have time to think about it. What would you do if you could change Ankh-Morpork?"
"Is this another game?" Vimes asked. "I don't like your games."
"It's not a game," Vetinari said. "You are in a unique position to change the city, even you don't realize it."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The Patrician was amused by Vimes. He awaited his next visit eagerly. Running the city was hard physically, but it had become something of a bore over the last year. Chores that had taxed him mind before: manipulating the guilds, keeping track of and directing the local economy, even his secret negotiations – they had all become mundane and predictable.
I'm too smart for my own good, he thought, remembering what his father had told him as a child. His father had been joking, but it was the truth occasionally. And he had realized something astounding over the last year. Ankh-Morpork could do without him now, with some work.
He had arranged the city so that if he was assassinated it would fall apart into chaos. No one dared kill him, and his rule was assured. He could rearrange things, however. He alone knew how the puppet's strings were pulled, and he could pull them at his whims.
The next morning he dressed with even more care than usual, taking the time to chose his clothes and apply makeup to hide his identity. He studied himself in the mirror.
Not bad, he thought. He looked at least twenty years younger, and his nose was less predatory. He'd never been one to lie to himself, and he knew that he looked noble, but not what most people would call attractive.
Camouflage was something frowned on in the Assassins' Guild, but he embraced it. It was something that was natural to him, and he was good at it. He had achieved something useful today. He looked as indistinct as possible. Vimes would never recognize him.
Vimes was nocturnal, but the Patrician knew he would be awake and out today. He'd offered him something golden – power. It was what all men really wanted. Some wanted the power to dominate, and some wanted the power to protect. Some saw money as power, and some weapons. But all men craved it; he was sure of that.
He made his way toward Vimes' house, and when he knocked at the door the servant showed him in.
"Lady Sybil is busy with the dragons, but if you'll leave your card I'll speak to her," the servant said.
I imagine they have all kinds of visitors. Vimes' democratic nature bothered the nobility, and it was one of the reasons Vetinari had chosen him for the difficult task ahead.
He waited in the formal reception area. It was just like their family to have such a pretentious formal room for such an informal family. Vimes was trapped by his Dukedom, and Sybil didn't care about what should have been an intimidating pedigree. She made Vetinari feel comfortable and even happy at times. If she'd had more decorum and fewer chins he could have even loved her when he was younger.
He moved into an inner room, and he saw more of what he expected to see. Vimes muddy boots sat in the middle of the hallway. Upon studying them and seeing the burn marks, Vetinari decided they were probably Sybil's boots.
Such an unassuming Duchess, he thought, with fond old memories resurfacing. She was one of the few people he'd consider a friend, even though they'd never used the word. They didn't need to.
"Oh, Havelock dear," Sybil said when she came in. "I'm glad you finally visited."
"You recognized me?" Vetinari asked. She still surprised him at times, something very few people did.
"Of course I did," she said. "Are you dressing up for Halloween?"
"It's September," he said.
"Ah," she said. "Come out and see the new dragons. I've made some additions since you've been here last."
Vetinari hastily excused himself. He didn't like the idea of meeting any more of Sybil's little friends. He'd used them for training when he was younger, much to her chagrin, and he'd been burned more than a few times.
"I'm just looking for your husband, actually," he said. "I assume he's gone out by now."
"Yes," she said. "The poor dear couldn't sleep. He kept grumbling about some bastard that was trying to work him, whatever that means."
"I wonder who he could have meant," Vetinari said dryly.
"He's out prowling," Sybil said. "I suppose you two boys are playing games again?"
"You're too astute at times, Sybil," Vetinari said. He wasn't worried about her giving him away later. He knew she'd forget he'd been there by the time Vimes got home. Even if she did remember, he would know what he needed to by then.
"You just missed him," she said. "He said he was going back to his roots. I don't really know what he meant by that, but he doesn't like to talk much in the mornings."
"Thank you Sybil," Vetinari said. "I'll have to come by and pay a proper visit some time."
He knew exactly where to go. He hadn't let someone as volatile as Vimes have so much power without knowing everything he could about him. He headed toward the slum that Vimes had grown up in.
He asked for the use of the lavatory and changed into more appropriate clothing. He'd brought along a special bag for the occasion, one that looked like a stylish bag until turned inside out, after which it looked more like something a homeless man might carry. He knew that Vimes moved in different circles, and he wanted to be prepared.
Vimes walked through the city until he reached the right slum. It looked much like any other slum, except that it had somehow managed to breed an upright police man, a Duke no less.
It smelled like a sewer, which wasn't surprising. The lawns were dirt. Vetinari wondered why there was never any grass in places like this.
Children playing in the "yards" noticed him, but they didn't interact. He looked like he belonged here.
He saw Vimes walking slowly through the neighborhood, wandering with his hands in his pockets. He'd never seen Vimes walk without either an angry stomp or the characteristic lope of the beat policeman, one that ate distance.
Vimes didn't seem to see him, but Vetinari was sure he'd been noticed. He can be subtle when he needs to be, Vetinari thought.
Vimes went through one of the more affluent parts of town, adopting that gait that Vetinari was more familiar with. The Patrician hid himself. As observant as Vimes was, he wouldn't see him if he didn't want to be seen. The Patrician stopped in an alley and changed quickly so that he would fit into the surroundings.
Vimes stopped in front of a statue, some warrior from times past that Vetinari didn't recognize. He moved on to the cemetery that honored the Small Gods, the place where most policemen were buried.
Predictable so far, the Patrician thought. He went to his past, and now he visits his future.
Vimes moved through the city purposefully now. He stopped in front of the Patrician's own palace and leaned against a store nearby. He simply stared for thirty minutes, and then he walked back toward his house.
He's decided, Vetinari thought, and he went back to his own Palace. Uncharacteristically, he needed a nap. His age was catching up, and it was finally time to take some action. Vimes was hardly a member of the younger generation, but he would do.
He slept badly. His leg hurt from the old wound, and he remembered the feeling of Vimes knocking him down and covering him with his own body. He wasn't protecting me; he was protecting the city.
Vimes would do whatever was necessary for his beloved Ankh-Morpork, and that made all the difference.
Vetinari woke feeling worn out and old. He expected Vimes that night, so he decided to have some coffee and wake himself properly.
He called a servant. "Bring me a coffee. We have a can of a brand called Troll Blend. I'd like to try it."
"Are you sure sir?" the servant asked. "We have a wonderful new batch imported from Klatch for visiting dignitaries. It's supposed to have undertones of almonds and smoke."
"No, I'll try the Troll Blend," Vetinari said. "I'm curious."
She brought him the coffee, and after the servant was gone he drank just a bit black.
How can they drink this mess? He wondered. It tastes like mud. As gentlemen he didn't know what mud tasted like, of course, but this was exactly the taste he'd imagine.
He added a bit of cream and sugar, but it just made the taste worse. They embrace this for some reason, he thought. The Watch wears worn-out shoes so they can feel the ground under them. They only want a new dart-board and a modest raise to compensate for years of grueling work, and they harbor a King among them who gave up his right to rule voluntarily for the good of the city – a human dwarf no less.
He had a disconcerting thought. I don't understand these people.
When Vimes arrived – as Vetinari knew he would – he didn't look the Patrician in the eye. His face was pale and swollen, as if he'd been crying.
What is going on here? The Patrician wondered, feeling alarmed.
"Is Sybil ok?" Vetinari asked, his heart beating faster. Injury or death of his wife was the only thing he could think of that might make Vimes cry.
I hope one of her little monsters didn't kill her, Vetinari thought.
Vimes finally looked him in the face with confusion. "She's fine. Why? Have you heard something?"
"No, it's just that you look…out of sorts," the Patrician said. "In fact, you look worse than I've ever seen you."
"I've been thinking about what you asked me, about what I would do if I could change Ankh-Morpork."
"And?" the Patrician asked.
"And you win," Vimes said quietly. "You finally did it. I give up."
"You give up on what?" the Patrician asked. "I truly didn't mean to cause you this much distress." Not this time, anyway, he thought.
"Nothing," Vimes said. "I wouldn't change anything."
"Wh…what?" Vetinari stammered, shocked. "But you've always wanted to make things better. That's who you are."
"If I was a powerful god I would get rid of the nobility, feed all the people and tear down the guilds."
"So you would change things," the Patrician said, feeling more at ease. Sam Vines was like the architecture of the city. He was something permanent, and Vetinari needed him to be stable, especially now.
"No," Vimes said. "Remove the nobles and the guilds completely take over. Remove the guilds and it's as bad as it was before they were there, maybe worse. Take them both away and some other evil would take their place. I can't even really think about a way to feed the poor and help them. They've been too beat down. They'd go back to the bottom."
He looked at the ground, but the Patrician still saw tears begin to roll down his cheeks. "I understand now, what you wanted. You wanted me to understand why you run the city this way. I see it now. You win. The cesspool can't be anything else, can it?"
The Patrician did something completely alien to him. He knew what would turn Vimes needed from him. He put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, and then he took his other hand and clasped it tightly, leaving himself open for attack.
He had no hand free to reach a weapon, and every instinct Vetinari had cried out against such contact, but he knew that Vimes was vulnerable and ripe for manipulation as he had never been.
"Sam," he said quietly, and Vimes looked into his eyes. Despair showed plainly.
"You're part of the reason this city can run at all. It's time for things to change, and I think you're one of the people that can do it."
"But how?" Vimes asked. "It's so precariously balanced. If you change one thing, everything else comes tumbling down."
The Patrician smiled. "Sybil," he said. "Between your tenacity and street smarts and her heart, money, and pedigree you two could do something I never could."
"What?" Vimes asked.
"You could make this a better place – probably not the best place, but better. I've done the groundwork for you. You can't take the bad things away, but you can work within the system."
"Wait…where is this going?"
"I'm getting old Sam," Vetinari said. "I'm ready to turn this over to a younger man, and you're the only one I can trust."
"I'm honored," Vimes said.
"I'll teach you before I leave," Vetinari said. "We have some public work to do, but by the time I'm ready to fake my death and move on you'll be accepted as my replacement. If we do this right the city will welcome you with open arms."
"Do I have time to think about this?" Vimes asked.
"Go home and talk to Sybil," Vetinari asked. "She has a remarkable ability to see things differently than other people. Come by tomorrow and we'll start your training."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Vimes couldn't wait to get home. Things weren't like they were supposed to be at all. Vetinari had been almost friendly. It wasn't right.
I can't be Patrician, he thought. I'm a cop.
But he knew that if he wasn't, the city would fall apart. Someone had to rule. He wished it was different, but he knew better. That was just how Ankh-Morpork went.
Sybil was working on her dragons' breeding charts, and he wiped a smudge of ink off her face, his hand lingering on her cheek.
She rose to hug him, and he pulled her close. He held her, just enjoying the safety and solidity of her presence.
"Sam, is something wrong?" she asked.
"It's not as bad now," Vimes said. "Nothing seems as bad when I'm with you."
He kissed her passionately, something he was too often too tired to do. He managed to forget his problems long enough to make love to her, but when he woke up reality asserted itself again.
He looked at Sybil, so peaceful. "What would you think if I told you Vetinari wants me to be the next Patrician?"
"Of course he does, dear," she said. "Havelock had always had a lot of sense. He'd only choose the best man for the job."
"And the best woman," Vimes said, stroking her hand. "If I have to do this I'll need you. Vetinari was right. You can make this place more human."
He kissed his wife again. It would be alright. Ankh-Morpork would go on – the big, ugly, wonderful city. It would always be ugly, but maybe – just maybe they could make it a little better.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Epilogue
Years later Vetinari was in the crowd in front of the Patrician's palace as Patrician Vimes made his first speech. It was full of promises and hopes for the future, hope that the Patrician thought might actually be partly realized.
After the cheering, the crowd became unruly. He'd expected that, and he wasn't surprised when they began to pull down a statue of him in the square near the palace.
It wasn't a good likeness anyway, he thought. He hadn't really wanted the thing, but he knew that the people expected some things from their dictators, and he had to give them what they wanted. They said they wanted freedom, but what they really wanted was for things to run smoothly.
Why not? He wondered, and he joined the people as they pulled the statue down and cheered. He wasn't the Patrician anymore. He was Samuel Johnson, a normal and somewhat boring traveler.
He decided to fully embrace his new life, and he bought a sausage in a bun from Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. He eyed it suspiciously and took a bite. He knew it wasn't poisoned, but if he hadn't been trained to know the taste of every known poison he wouldn't have believed it. He tossed the rest of the sausage to a scruffy brown dog nearby, but the dog sniffed it and moved on.
"Smart dog," he said.
The dog looked back, and he could have sworn it cursed at him, but he knew that dogs didn't talk. As he walked away from the palace and his former life the little dog followed him. When he got away from the other people he began to notice the smell. It was a cross between a typical wet-dog smell and a public bathroom.
"Do you want to come with me?" Johnson asked.
"Woof?" the dog said.
"Ok, but you're getting a bath," Johnson said.
The dog tucked its tail and whined. "How about this?" Johnson asked. "You get a bath and I'll buy you something better than sausage-in-a-bun to eat?"
The dog perked up and wagged its tail. Johnson patted it on the head, wiping his hand on his pants afterward. "I'm going to call you Wuffles the Second, ok?"
The dog sniffed and sneezed, and Johnson patted his head again. It felt good to be able to finally allow himself to be soft, to show a bit of sympathy for a fellow being without any reason besides the fact that it felt good to do so.
"How do you feel about visiting Klatch?" Johnson asked the dog.
The dog grumbled, and Johnson had a sudden suspicion that the dog understood far too much for a regular dog.
"Woof?" the dog asked, and they walked away from Ankh-Morpork into a new life.