Chapter 4

Miss Winter submitted her report to Lord Vetinari four days before Hogswatch. It comprised forty-five carefully handwritten pages, including tables, graphs and diagrams. It also included some unwelcome news. The next morning as she was tidying up her equipment, Vetinari unexpectedly stepped in, her report in his hands. He gestured silently towards the group of chairs near the desk and they sat down.

"Miss Winter, we need to talk about this report."

She inclined her head in agreement and so they talked at length, she with animated gestures, presenting lists and charts and generating an aura of expert conviction, he with a steadily deepening expression of dissatisfaction.

"...and I am absolutely positive that this new type of raw rubber from Hersheba is contaminated with significant amounts of Troglodyne, which enters the atmosphere via the factory exhausts."

"Miss Winter, I happen to have a degree in alchemy, yet this substance is entirely unknown to me."

Miss Winter paused and looked at him with a mixture of respect and amusement.

"I believe, my lord, I studied a little bit later than you did," she said diplomatically. And I've seen the text books they have at the guild, she added to herself. Well, I suppose all they try to do is kill people.

"Alchemy is a rapidly developing science, my lord, and a number of new elements have been discovered in recent years, among them Troglodyne. Troglodyne is very toxic, very dangerous. It affects the respiratory system and possibly the brain. There would not have been a problem while they used the be Trobi rubber."

"But the be Trobi rubber is more expensive, is it not?"

"Yes. Transport costs, I believe. Nevertheless, in the interest of public health, the factories should immediately return to using only be Trobi rubber."

The Patrician rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"I assume you have had some thoughts about how the factory owners will react to that? Do you have any suggestions how I should deal with the major outcry there will be if the prices of rubber products increase? Or the affronted notes I will get from the Hershebean Consul?"

"No, my lord, I haven't. That is your job. I have done mine."

Vetinari raised his eyebrow, but she met his stare with equanimity. Then he sighed.

"Fair enough. You have completed your assignment as per my orders, so I shall act upon it. Now for the last section of your report. You are telling me that there are likely to be several other branches of industry that produce similarly harmful emissions?"

"Samples I collected in different parts of the city suggest that, yes."

"Isn't a certain amount of pollution to be expected in a city of this size?"

"A certain amount, yes. The levels that I am finding here, no."

The Patrician turned to the last page of the report and glanced over its contents.

"I am not convinced that I should do anything about this. The city has lived with pollution for as long as people can remember, and before the current problem there has never been any real harm in that. What reason would I have to interfere?"

"You mean apart from the moral obligation not to allow a million people to be slowly poisoned?" she replied.

"Is that, in fact, the case?" he asked.

"Well, I cannot be sure until a more thorough investigation, but I wouldn't be surprised if, for example, infant mortality turned out to be much higher in Ankh-Morpork than elsewhere."

"Ah. Infant mortality is maybe not the most important issue to tackle in an overpopulated city."

"For shame, my lord," cried Miss Winter. "That is no joking matter. If you are concerned about overpopulation, you should advocate higher education for women."

"Indeed?"

"Well, it has worked for me, hasn't it?" she said, then she blushed and continued hastily: "Besides, there are other reasons for reducing pollution. A healthier workforce would be more productive and have a positive effect on the city's businesses. And I believe there is a serious danger of a city-wide epidemic emerging from that river. With the limited medical facilities available here, that might well mean that Ankh-Morpork could be wiped off the map. In fact, I think it must be a matter of sheer luck that this has not yet happened."

"Why has nobody else told me that before?"

"Who did you ask?"

Fingertips touching his lips, the Patrician sat for a while with his eyes closed. Then he seemed to have reached a conclusion, for he rose from his seat.

"I believe you may be right, Miss Winter. I had a different task in mind for you next, but it seems you have already set your heart on another project, and a more urgent one at that. You'd better look into this. I expect a complete analysis of all harmful substances you can find in the city environment, of their origin and the potential damage they do. Make a plan. Explain precisely what you are going to investigate and in what order. Start with the river. This will be your job from now on until further notice. I am afraid I cannot promote you as you are already the manager of your department. Will you be satisfied with a pay rise?"

She smiled. "That is unnecessary, my lord, but not entirely unwelcome."

"Fine. I shall instruct the payroll officer accordingly."

She expected him to make his exit then; instead he got up and wandered about the room, seemingly inspecting various alchemical apparatuses.

"I hear you are musical," he said suddenly.

"I play the flute. The harp, too, though I had to leave that at home. I miss it sorely, but it is quite impossible to transport. What about yourself?"

"I prefer to read music."

She smiled. "You are kidding me. You mean you like to just sit in a corner and read the score?"

"Indeed. I abhor the thought of music being defiled by the sweat and saliva of musicians. It should stay on the sheet, where it is pure and perfect."

"A rather elitist view, I dare say."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is. There are a great many people with a capacity to appreciate music, but very few who can sight-read well."

"It would be up to them to learn," replied Vetinari coldly.

"No, don't be silly! What about the little baby, or the old man who never even learned to read letters? What about the man behind the plough or the woman doing the washing?"

"I would not expect such people to have much of a capacity to appreciate music."

"You'd be surprised, my lord. For many ordinary people, music is a way to transcend their otherwise prosaic existence."

"You mean such as my kitchen staff? Are you aware, Miss Winter, that palace staff regularly stand in the corridor outside your office to listen to you singing?"

She blushed.

"No, my lord, I was not aware of that. But it rather supports my argument, doesn't it?"

Noticing Vetinari's dissatisfied expression, she continued:

"You have a valid point, though. Performed music is rarely perfect. It is subject to a great deal of struggle before it becomes even presentable. But then, one needs to ask if perfection is what the composer aimed for."

"What else would he aim for?" snapped the Patrician, pointing his cane at her. She leaned back, bemused.

"You are getting all worked up, my lord. This is not like you. You are supposed to be rational and dispassionate, you know. And music is not a topic one should quarrel about. Anyway, there are other things than perfection that are desirable. Expression, for example. Performed music can be intense, immediate, existing only for the present moment and encompassing the emotions and personalities of all the performers. A whole that is more than the sum of its parts. In comparison to that, the perfection of the score is somewhat sterile, don't you think?"

"I would prefer sterile to saturated, thank you very much Miss Winter. And music is not supposed to breed. Good day."

Vetinari walked out, frowning. As he ascended the stairs to his office he had to endure the unpleasant feeling that while he had no intention to relinquish his opinion, somebody else's view might actually have more merit.

----

The representatives of the Guild of Rubber Manufacturers were clearly displeased. Several incidents in the last two weeks had not been to their liking, though most of these they would not openly address at this meeting. Their agreed strategy required that they appeared as victims of a political intrigue. Therefore their spokesman had just pointed out to the Patrician that they objected strongly to the way they had been spied upon. Lord Vetinari leaned back in his chair and surveyed the assembled factory owners slowly.

"Spies, gentlemen? Let us ascertain that we are using the same terminology here. I understand a spy to be a conniving person of considerable devious resources who gains information by methods of cunning and secrecy. Is that a definition we can all consent to, Mr Graves?"

Mr Graves, thus singled out from the group, shifted uneasily in his seat and nodded a reluctant agreement.

"Whereas," continued Vetinari, "I sent to your gates a person whose cunning on a scale of one to ten I would gauge somewhere in the region of, let's say, minus two? Or does your impression of the environmental health officer suggest a different assessment, Mr Hayden?"

Mr Hayden shuffled his feet but could not think of a reply that would challenge the Patrician's evaluation. He had actually thought the woman laughable.

"Shall we conclude then, that espionage is not the appropriate term to apply here? Good. I am of the opinion that audit is the word you were really looking for. Do you question the city's right to conduct audits of its most vital industries?"

By then Mr Farway, the spokesman, had regained his initiative.

"We were, of course, happy to cooperate with Miss Winter in the execution of the audit, but we are raising questions as to the transparency of the procedure. There was no decision made in the Guild Council prior to the audit."

"You may find this surprising, Mr Farway, but I am actually not dependent on the Guild Council's approval for the implementation of routine procedures. But I do understand that in the absence of your guild leader you might lack information as to..."

"Yes, what have you done to Snaigilla?" Mr Graves suddenly burst out.

Lord Vetinari turned his gaze on the man.

"Mr Snaigilla is on holiday, Mr Graves. Quirm, I believe. You know, they have the floral clock."

"Quite so, my lord," said Mr Farway, glaring at Mr Graves. "Mr Snaigilla certainly deserves a break. Meanwhile all we want is to assure that all procedures concerning the guild have been conducted correctly."

"Let me assure you that they have. Of course you, Mr Farway, will be able to give me your word that all your dealings with Miss Winter have been absolutely correct, too?"

"Of course, we have..."

"And did by no means include intimidation, threat or attempted bribery?"

Mr Farway had been prepared for this.

"We were sorry to hear that Miss Winter has been troubled by common muggers, but you will find it difficult to gain any evidence that will connect this incidence with the guild."

"Yes," said Lord Vetinari.

"Yes...?"

"Yes. It was difficult to gain the evidence. That is why it took almost two weeks."

The manufacturers fell silent as the Patrician pulled a slim folder towards him that had been sitting on the edge of his desk.

"However, comprehensive evidence is now in my hands. Therefore, gentlemen, I suggest that you agree swiftly to the deal I am about to propose to you, unless you want to share the fate of Mr Snaigilla."

The men stared at him. Vetinari looked up from the folder and smiled.

"Quirm can be very dull in the winter months, or so I understand. Are you quite well, Mr Farway?"

----

In a little room in a small boarding house next to a bookshop in Short Street, Angelina and Henry Winter sat head to head, poring over a music stand, pointing to different passages in animated talk.

"I am still not pleased with the dynamics here."

"You mean I'm too loud."

"No, no. Just that the flute is hard to hear in the lower range..."

"You may as well say I am drowning you."

"All right then, you are drowning me."

Henry Winter smiled. Angelina considered her brother with the indulgence of the older sibling. He was a ginger-haired man in his late twenties, handsome in a careless, dashing way, and he wore assassin's black with the casual confidence of somebody who suits anything, but certainly knows what suits him best. Only somebody with his natural style could be a red-head, an assassin and look cool playing a cello.

"Let's try again from bar 56; I'll mark it as piano if mezzo piano isn't good enough for you. Where did I put my pencil?"

"Behind your ear, silly."

They worked their way twice through Fondel's Fantasia in b minor, comparing notes on difficult phrases in between. Later they sat at the rickety little table drinking tea and munching figgins that Henry had bought from a street vendor.

"So how's your report gone down?" asked Henry, adding four spoons of sugar to his cup.

Angelina put her hand over the sugar basin.

"You know that's bad for your teeth. And don't grin at me like that, if it hasn't ruined them by now, it can still do so over the years. Anyway, the report went down fine. Lord Vetinari has promised to take the necessary steps."

"He didn't mind about the Hershebean rubber?"

"I think he minded a bit, but I told him how dangerous the Troglodyne was, and he saw my point. He agreed that the whole issue of pollution in this city needs to be looked at very carefully. Oh, and he gave me a pay rise. Which I think is fair enough, given that he's piled even more responsibility on my feeble shoulders. But he was quite amiable."

Henry grinned deviously.

"Amiable is not a term one often hears associated with the Patrician," he remarked.

"Well, I dare say he can be a bit spiky at times," she replied, recalling their row about music. "But by and large I see nothing wrong with him. Does he really have such a bad reputation?"

"Depends on who you ask. Old Downey would tell you he is a presumptuous upstart, Commander Vimes of the City Watch would probably call him a cunning bastard, and the people in the street tend to blame him for anything from their boils to last week's rain of coping saws – though it seems that women generally look upon him more kindly."

A puzzled frown wrinkled Angelina's nose.

"But the city appears to be thriving. Surely that must be largely due to his competence?"

"Competence doesn't make a man popular," said Henry.

"Well, I think it is very sad for him if people don't acknowledge his merits."

"I don't think he minds much."

"I would mind if I were him," said Angelina wistfully and sank her teeth into a figgin.

Henry laughed. "I bet you would. It's just as well you don't have his job."

She nodded, and brushed crumbs off her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Probably."

"He is an assassin, did you know that? Trained in the proud tradition of our guild," he said with a grin.

"Yes, yes, you mentioned that before. That doesn't make him worse than you, does it? Anyway, what would you like to play next week? I have Grimaldi's Summer Variations, a set of country airs by Vernell and some lovely stuff by that Uberwaldian composer with the unpronounceable name."

"Huxtebude? Yes, I think I'd like to give that a try."

"It would be much nicer, if we had the harp, though I suppose that cannot be helped. At least it means I'm safe from you calling me a harpy..."

"I'll think of something else to call you," teased Henry.

Their conversation returned to music, while they peacefully sipped their tea and the winter rain trickled down the window.

----

Three weeks after the submission of Miss Winter's first report, Drumknott approached the Patrician with a worried expression.

"Yes, Drumknott, what is the matter?"

"It is Miss Winter, my lord. She insists on seeing you immediately. I have told her that you are busy, but she will not go away. She seems very angry."

"Did we dock her salary?"

"No, my lord."

"Any deliveries of test tubes gone astray?"

"Not that I know of, my lord."

They both paused and listened to the sound of their environmental health officer pacing impatiently around the outer office. The Patrician sighed.

"Well, Drumknott, let her come in and I shall see if I can pacify her."

"Certainly, my lord."

As soon as Drumknott opened the door, Miss Winter stormed in and flung a copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times onto his desk. Vetinari looked up at her and raised an eye-brow.

"They are still using the Hershebean rubber! I was down at the factories this morning, and they are still using it. You have done nothing to stop them, and now there are two little children dead!"

"Sit down, Miss Winter."

She began to walk up and down in front of his desk.

"I have told you, haven't I? It was all there in my report. It was the change from be Trobi to Hershebean rubber that caused the dangerous emissions. I have told you this, and it was up to you to stop it. Why haven't you done anything about it?"

"Sit down, Miss Winter!"

"I wonder why you took the trouble to employ me if you're going to pay no heed to my advice. I told you it was the Hershebean rubber. Toxic Troglodyne, I recall with perfect clarity that I explained that to you. I said it had to stop immediately. Now there are two families bereaved, and it would have been entirely avoidable if you had but acted on my advice!"

Miss Winter ranted on for a while in this manner, but eventually she ran out of steam and sat down on the chair in front of his desk. Her face was crimson and she bit her lip. Vetinari did not move a muscle.

"Are you quite finished?" he said. "Mr Drumknott, a glass of water for Miss Winter, please, and the file about the Guild of Rubber Manufacturers."

Drumknott, who had been standing by the open door, unable to draw himself away from this unusual spectacle, disappeared noiselessly. Vetinari touched his lips with his steepled fingers and looked at her coolly.

"Before you have me burned at the stake for incompetence, Miss Winter, I advise you to rein in your temper. I am not sure what your previous experience with authority is, but you must be aware that a less enlightened ruler would consider your appearance here as deeply offensive and would act accordingly."

Drumknott came back, carefully placing a folder and a glass of water on the desk, then he slid out of the room.

"Drink the water, Miss Winter."

"I..."

"Drink the water!"

She drank obediently, an effort which forced her to steady her trembling hands and gasping breath.

The Patrician opened the folder and wordlessly handed her a sheet of paper. She perused it in silence.

"As you see, Miss Winter, the Guild of Rubber Manufacturers has decided at their meeting last night that as of next week the use of any kind of raw rubber other than the be Trobi kind will be prohibited within the City of Ankh-Morpork. I don't want to bore you with details, but I will mention that this decision is the result of some well-considered steps I took during the last three weeks. There will be no more Hershebian rubber processed in the city. Are you satisfied?"

She did not lift her eyes off the paper and replied in a very quiet voice:

"That does not bring the two children back to life."

Vetinari threw up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

"Miss Winter," he said slowly and deliberately, "sad as the event may be for the concerned families, things like this do happen in a busy city. Ankh-Morpork is, figuratively speaking, a rather large omelette, and the breaking of some eggs is often unavoidable. One of the children, I hear, was a cripple."

Her head shot up and she stared at him white faced.

"And that makes it all right, is that what you are saying?" she demanded.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say..."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't, but that's what you're thinking, isn't it? Just a cripple, so what does it matter."

She rose off the chair and began pacing the room again. Vetinari watched her with a carefully neutral face.

"You don't care three straws about people, do you? What's a couple of children to you, just something to fall by the wayside in the busy life of your wonderful city! And nobody cares for a cripple anyway. Oh, what do you know about it, you know nothing!"

She sank down on the chair again and Vetinari noticed to his surprise that tears were welling up in her eyes. And then it all came out. About Marigold and her brothers at first, but very soon she was talking about her own baby sister, who had never learned to walk or talk, but who had been the darling treasure of the family. Who had laughed and smiled and clapped to the music, but who in spite of all the love and care lavished upon her by her devoted parents and siblings had died shortly after her fifth birthday. And about nine-year-old Angelina, who, beside herself with grief, had pulled out her hair and smashed her toys and vowed to never, ever forget little Penelope.

"But you have no idea," she sobbed. "You are like all these other people who see a child on crutches or in a wheelchair and think it's 'just a cripple'. They never realize that each one of them is somebody's beloved child."

Vetinari walked over to her and handed her a handkerchief, then he stood beside her silently until her sobs had died away. Eventually, Miss Winter dried her tears and crunched up the handkerchief in her hand.

"I am sorry, my lord," she whispered. "I just got so upset."

He sighed almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, well. Don't be sorry, it serves no purpose. I had indeed assumed that the death of that child had relieved the family of a burden. But I may have been wrong."

She sat, looking down on her hand, which was opening and closing around the crumpled handkerchief.

"I hope you realize though, dear Miss Winter, that I did not in fact neglect your advice. It is regrettable that such victims have occurred, but it would have been impossible to advance the case any quicker. One might as well blame you for not submitting your report earlier."

"But I had to..." she began; then her voice trailed off. "I see," she said quietly.

"Ah, I am glad about that. Now I hope you have composed yourself sufficiently to return to your duties. An appointment of public importance requires me to go out in about...," he glanced at a pocket watch, "...oh, four minutes. I shall ask Mr Drumknott to send you a cup of tea down to your office."

"Thank you, my lord."

Five minutes later the Patrician sat in his carriage and wondered when he had last called somebody "dear". He couldn't remember.