Yesss! I've finally finished it! Mildred's little adventure comes to a close, and the answer to "What's on the mug?!?" will finally be answered. (I'm also drawing a piccie of Lord Vetinari with said mug, because I can't get the image out of my head. Will let you see it soon.)

Thanks to all the usual suspects and a few new ones; Mercator, Merlyn, Maiden Genisis, Twist, Domino Falling, Tindomiel, ZiS, Charlie's Mum, Elderberry, Guin, and Unseen Watcher.

Cheers to you all! I was really nervous about doing this, but you all gave me so much encouragement. Thanks! There will be a sequel at some point, honest, if you can put up with my erratic posting. Remember the "Old Marthter", the older Count Magpyr from Carpe Jugulum? The one who was brought back to life (or close) by Igor near the end of the book, who liked to play fair, had diagrams of the human body with the heart clearly marked, lots of things lying about that could be turned into religious icons and really appreciated "adventurous young ladies over seventeen and looking good in a nightie"? I really liked him. He called his castle "Dontgonearthe"! How can you not love a vampire with a sense of humour like that?

So, I decided it would be great fun if he came to Ankh Morpork as the new Uberwaldian Ambassador. And he really likes the look of Mildred's neck… I hope you'll all like it – in the meantime, here's the end of this story:

Chapter Four

At the best of times, Commander Vimes found it hard to look directly at Lord Vetinari whenever he stood before his desk in the Oblong Office. His eyes were always fixed at a spot on the wall about a foot above and roughly six inches to the left of the Patrician's head. Most coppers reporting to their superiors tend to do this, especially when they're trying not to let their superiors know what's really going on. Pointless excerise with Vetinari, but at least Vimes could say he tried.

He was finding it extremely difficult this morning. It had started off well enough; he'd given a report on the execution of Carcer (and he took grim pleasure at having seen that cheery little smile finally wiped off the bastard's face), and Vetinari had given him some good news about Dragon King of Arms. That was one arrogant git who wasn't going to poison a candle again, not floating in a jar in the depths of space. A tiny part of him suspected that the enthusiastic vampire hunter responsible had been sent by Vetinari himself, but he wasn't going to try and find out. Basking in the warmth of the memory of holding his son Sam that morning before he came here, Vimes reckoned that such things could stay in the dark.

Something was bothering him, though. There was something wrong about the office, like on of those "What's wrong with this iconograph?" puzzles in the Times. A picture, perfectly normal but for one tiny thing. It took him a while to figure out what it was, but when he did, it held his full attention.

There was a mug on Lord Vetinari's polished mahogany desk, sitting on a coaster next to the man's black clad elbow.

A mug.

In Vimes' experience, thanks to his time with Sybil, aristocrats like Vetinari did not drink from mugs. Those paper-thin china teacups, yes, or exquisitely carved crystal glasses. Not mugs. Certainly not garishly bright yellow ones, either.

But that really wasn't the most confusing thing about it.

There was a smiley face painted on the front of the mug. A simple circle, with two dots for eyes and an upward curving line for a smile. That jolly little face that usually appeared on shop assistants name badges imploring you to have a nice day. That was what was on this mug. This mug, that was sitting on the desk of Lord Vetinari, who generally didn't seem to give a damn if people were having a nice day or not.

Vimes felt his eyes being repeatedly drawn back to it, just to check if he had really seen it there. And it was. Half full of the expensive Klatchian coffee the Patrician seemed to be fuelled by.

"Is something the matter, Commander?"

Sam Vimes fell back on something warm and familiar, his single syllable all-in-one question, answer and shield whenever he spoke to the Patrican; "Sir?"

"Do you have something in your eyes? They appear to be twitching," Lord Vetinari, not taking his own eyes from Vimes' face, picked up the mug and took a small sip from it. Vimes' eyes flickered to the mug, snapped back to the wall and then were involuntarily dragged back again.

"No, sir. Um—" he couldn't stand it. He had to at least make some sort of comment, try and figure out just how and why the damn thing was there...

"That's a very nice mug, sir," he finally managed. Vetinari glanced down at the mug and raised his eyebrows, as if he'd only just seen it for the first time.

"This? Yes, it is rather nice, isn't it? Very professional glazing, I thought."

"Glazing," Vimes repeated tonelessly. Bloody hell...

"Hmm. The colour is quite vivid, too. It certainly reflects well on the craftsmanship available in the city, don't you think, Commander?"

"Craftsmanship," said Vimes, "Right." He looked hopelessly at the mug again, "It's really, um— cheerful."

"Indeed?"

"You could even say it was— jolly."

The Patrician turned the mug around in his slim fingers and studied the smiley face. Then his calm blue eyes rolled up to Vimes' face, "Hmm, yes. I daresay you could. Rather brightens the atmosphere, don't you think?"

It dawned on Vimes suddenly that the reaction he'd had itself was the reason for all this. With his head still full of Sybil and little Sam, he hadn't twigged. Vetinari made a habit of keeping people off balance. Lord Havelock Vetinari was not the type of man who would own a smiley face mug. So when you came in and saw the smiley face mug...

Vimes rubbed a hand over his eyes, "Oh. I get it." The Patrician gave one of his small smiles.

"Yes, Commander. Well done." And then he did it again; springing into another topic while everyone else was still getting over the previous one. Vetinari began to sift through his papers, "I am sure you wish to go home to your family, Vimes, so I will only detain you a moment longer. There is the matter of—"

There was a polite knock on the door to the office, Drumknott put his head around it with the Patrician's summons; "Miss Easy is here, my lord."

"Ah, yes. Send her in please."

Vimes watched, confused, as Mildred Easy was ushered in by Vetinari's head clerk. The girl didn't seem frightened or uneasy, just puzzled. She smiled at Vimes.

"Ah, Miss Easy. So kind of you to come in on your day off. I trust I am not interrupting anything of importance?"

Mildred smiled and curtsied, "Um, no sir, just the washing up." Her eyes found the mug and stayed there. Vimes waited for the look of confusion and worry, but her grin only got wider.

"Please take a seat. I shall be with you in just a moment; Commander Vimes and I have one more thing to attend to."

Vimes' head turned from Mildred back to Vetinari. His coppering instinct had switched on and was clamouring. Something was going on here. The Patrician was up to something. Well he was always up to something, him being Vetinari. If there was a personification of Being Up To Something, he would be it. But for as long as Vimes had known him, the Patrician had never had any of his domestic staff in for an interview before. And Mildred was calm. He remembered her in those awful days just after her gran and little brother had died, thinking that he'd come to arrest her at their funeral, for the god's sake, jumpy and apologetic. Yet she was, sitting prim and patient in Vetinari's office (and he'd make anyone jumpy), just waiting for them to finish. Something was definately up, here.

The Patrician had resumed his hunt through the landscape of paper upon his desk, "Now, where was it— Ah," he held up a sheet. "Yes. Cockbill Street."

"What?" said Vimes. He heard Mildred breathe in sharply behind him.

Lord Vetinari ran his eyes over the paper, "Yes. Lord Rust paid me a call this morning with some rather distressing news. Apparently it has been brought to his attention that as landlord, he has the right and the— responsiblity for the maintenance of the properties he owns throughout the city."

He sighed, sitting back and steepling his fingers, a sure sign of trouble as far as Commander Vimes was concerned; "Unfortunately, due to his heavy investment in the recent— misunderstanding with Klatch, he does not possess the funds to complete the repairs Cockbill Street rather desperately needs. He was most distressed at this state of affairs; he's been so busy recently he had not realised the true extent of the problem. The only option, it seems, is to sell the tenancy to someone who has the funds and the, ah, appreciation of the situation in Cockbill Street. I promised him I would find a suitable candidate as quickly as possible."

He looked up into Sir Samuel Vimes' eyes. Sir Samuel Vimes, who was married to the richest woman in the city. Sam Vimes, who'd grown up in Cockbill.

Vimes groaned and covered his eyes, "You've bloody gone and done it again."

The Patrician raised his eyebrows, "I'm sorry?"

"Dartboard." He watched Vetinari cover his mouth. "Dammit. Allright, I'll need to talk to Sybil, but I'm sure it won't be a problem. I'll buy Cockbill. There, happy now?"

Vetinari's hand was still covering his mouth, "Why, Sir Samuel, what an unexpected gesture. Thank you, Lord Rust will be most relieved." His eyes flickered over to Mildred. It was a small movement, barely lasting a second, but Vimes noticed it. He turned to look at Mildred. She was staring at Lord Vetinari, her face open in shock. Suspicion bloomed again. Little facts clicked into place.

"Mildred?"

She blinked and looked up at him, "Yes, Mr Vimes?"

"Where were you at eleven o'clock last night?"

"Um," Mildred, glanced over at Lord Vetinari, who gave a small nod, "I was at Small Gods, Mr Vimes."

"Of course. Up cleaning Flora's grave, right?" Vimes sighed, "You heard us, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mr Vimes. Sorry."

"Miss Easy understands the situation, Sir Samuel. We can rely on her discretion. I also have her to thank for this charming mug, " the Patrician raised it as if giving her a toast, "It's been most useful."

"You gave him that mug?"

Mildred grinned weakly. Her head was still spinning around the news of Cockbill, "Um, not really. Mam did."

"It was quite late when I encountered Miss Easy," Vetinari said, "She was quite understandably in some shock. I decided to escort her home."

"You did what?"

"I couldn't allow her to walk through the city alone at that time of night, Vimes."

Vimes stared at him, "Let me see if I've got this straight. You gallivanted halfway across this city, with out a damn guard, after midnight, with a maid."

"And was very kindly treated to a cup of tea by Miss Easy and her mother. Which reminds me," Vetinari took a small package out of one of the mysterious drawers in his desk, "Would you be so kind as to give this to your mother with my regards, Mildred?"

She staggered over and took it from him, "What is it, sir?"

"A rare blend of tea from Agatea. I thought she might enjoy it, " Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "She is not, under any circumstances, to put milk in it. That is an order."

Mildred grinned, "Right you are, sir. Um, was this what you wanted to see me about?"

"Ah, no. Not quite," he picked up another piece of paper. Mildred and Vimes watched it warily.

"I have been considering having Mrs Dipplock delegate some of her duties to others. She is of course a wonderful housekeeper, but I know she has been troubled of late by some debilitating attacks of rheumatism. I suggested to her that perhaps her task of tidying and dusting this office could be given to you."

"Me?"

"Indeed. The hubwards wing of the Palace is admirably free of dust, thanks to your efforts. I am sure you will apply such diligence here. Your salary will reflect your new duties, I believe it will be an extra ten dollars a week."

"Uh, um, w-what about Mrs Dipplock?" she said, while inside her head she heard 'Ten dollars extra a week! Ten dollars! Ten!'

"She was most pleased, I am glad to say. She is also due a raise this year, I believe."

More money for less work, Mildred managed to think. Of course she'd be pleased.

Ten dollars!

Vimes folded his arms, "Is this a little reward for discretion?"

"An understanding of the circumstances, Commander. And talent. Miss Easy has a love of reading. I thought perhaps she might also help the clerks with filing and some other small duties," he steepled his fingers once more and regarded Mildred over the top of them, "It is, of course, entirely up to you whether or not you accept, Mildred."

She looked back at him. Ten dollars extra a week would, well, it would make a hell of a difference. Her Mam would be over the moon. And she was intrigued by the prospect of getting a front row seat, as it were, of the political theatre in Ankh Morpork. The chance to watch this strange, complex man do what he did best. The chance to pick up some new skills by helping out Mr Drumknott and the other clerks. The chance to make her life a damn sight more interesting than it had ever been.

Ten bloody dollars a week!

Mildred took a deep breath; "It sounds really interesting, Milord. I'd like to give it a go."

"Capital. I look forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow, Mildred. Report to Drumknott at nine o'clock. Now, I am sure you wish to enjoy the rest of your days off, and I know you will want to return to your family, Commander. Do give my best wishes to Lady Sybil."

"Thank you sir, I will. And I'll go and see Rust about the deeds to Cockbill tomorrow morning," Vimes shook his head, but inside he was grinning ferally. Getting Cockbill off bloody Rust. He was going to enjoy this... He and Vetinari locked gazes, and Vimes saw the briefest flicker of amusement there.

"Good. Lord Rust shall be most relieved, I am sure." He sat back in his severe chair and pulled the next stack of paper work toward him, "Don't let me detain you."

Vimes saluted, Mildred curtsied, and they both walked in stunned silence to the door.

Lord Vetinari looked up at the door after they were gone and smiled. Then he winced, and shifted his position to ease his back. He picked up the dragon headed speaking tube, and asked Drumknott to go and see if Mrs Dipplock could spare any of her rheumatic ointments.

The next time he encountered any young ladies in need of an escort, he decided firmly, he would get them a carriage.

Mildred wandered along the streets of Ankh Morpork without really looking where she was going, which isn't advisable. She just about managed to navigate the traders, carts and small fist fights through the veils of shock.

Bloody, bloody hell. Vimes had Cockbill. They probably wouldn't be able to move with all the repair work that would start. She was going to get ten extra dollars a week. And she was going to be in the same room as Lord Vetinari nearly every day from now on. It was going to be— very interesting.

She stopped as two carts collided on the road ahead, and watched as the argument escalated into violence. She sighed. Even if the Watch turned up, the obstruction probably wouldn't be shifted in a hurry. An appreciative crowd was already developing around the scuffling carters, blocking the way further. She'd have to double back and go round another way in order to get home...

As Mildred turned, she caught sight of the Palace, white and gleaming in the morning sun. She stared at it for a full two minutes.

Then she looked down a narrow alleyway nearby, and found it empty. She strolled along it until she found a handy out house with a low sloping roof. She gathered up her skirts.

She grinned.

She started to climb.