Disclaimer: Discworld is the playground of Terry Pratchett; I'm merely sneaking a peak over the fence.
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The Last Straw
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Whispers were flittering through the air of Ankh-Morpork—well, given that it was Ankh-Morpork it was more like they were getting dragged down by the air pollution, then slinking through the wet grimy gutters—but one way or another, the news was spreading. Lord Vetinari, venerated patrician of Ankh-Morpork, was planning to retire. And there wouldn't even be any stakes involved.*
Oddly enough, these rumors were mostly spoken in tones of curiosity, not greed. When the first rumblings appeared, a few fools had rushed in, unaware that the only way such news would spread was if the Patrician himself was behind it. After they'd been crushed, a few more cautious players set plans into motion. No one knew what had happened to them.** But if the Patrician wasn't fond of any of the candidates, then who would succeed him?
This question was not***on Commander Samuel Vimes' mind when Lord Vetinari called him in for a private meeting. In the opinion of Mister Vimes, it mattered little who sat on the throne of Ankh-Morpork, providing they didn't interfere with His Watch. And as long as it wasn't Lord Rust. Or some sort of king. Knowing Vetinari, Vimes wasn't too worried about either possibility, and thus, while the rest of the city's important personages scrambled madly, he focused on more important matters, such as traffic problems on Treacle Street and who might be behind a recent string of illegal burglaries.
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*No one had ever claimed that the Patrician was a vampire, but in the private places of their minds, some wondered if there were any predators that fed on the blood-suckers themselves, and if so, whether they might enjoy politics.
**Creative minds imagined of secret underground dungeons full of scorpions and the decaying corpses of mimes. The truth was far less dramatic. Once Vetinari had threatened to once again raise the possibility of Nobby Nobbs as heir to the throne of Ankh-Morpork, his horrified fellow nobles had toppled like a house of cards.
***Not. NOT. N-O-T. He was, in fact, the only man in the entire city for whom this was "not" the case.
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Lord Vetinari looked up as Vimes entered his office and saluted. "At ease, Commander." The Patrician's hair had gone completely white over the years, he seemed to have shrunk a little (although no one would have dared notice even in the privacy of their own heads) and there were rumors that he could no longer walk at all. But his presence was as imposing as ever.
"Yes, sir." Vimes fixed his eyes at a point on the wall, above the Patrician's head.
"You may have heard rumors about my plans to retire."
"Sir?" Vimes said, wrinkling his forehead in a confused way that, despite his best efforts, Vetinari had never been able to break him of.
Vetinari said, "I have analyzed many candidates, and there is only one who I would consider suitable to be my successor."
"Yes sir," Vimes said idly, his mind beginning to drift. Vetinari probably wanted some sign of support from him. Well, unless it was Rust, he could count on it. Though Vimes hated to admit it, he mostly trusted the Patrician's judgment.*
Vetinari cleared his throat, steepled his fingers, and said, "Commander Vimes, I would like to nominate you to be the next Patrician of Ankh-Morpork."
There was a loud thud.
Vetinari peered over his desk. Then he said, "Drumknott, could you send someone in to pick up the Commander? He appears to have fainted."
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*And by hated to admit it, he meant that it was on the same list as "stopping pursuit of a suspect" and "attending a posh event without trying to get out of it first" (but still below "missing reading to Young Sam" by a large margin).