Discworld and all its everything belong to Terry Pratchett.
Chapter posted 07/10/12 in effort to improve pacing of first version. It also includes another cut scene first seen in 'Additions to Distinctions'.
Right in line with the Watch's Igor's prediction, Susan was able to move more freely by Saturday. The scars left on her side and neck were faint, pinkish lines; Igor hadn't been able to ask Susan her preference at the time, as she'd been unconscious and near death, but he'd offered to tweak the scars later if she wanted something more prominent. She wasn't vain enough to go back under the needle to completely eliminate the line that ran over her jaw and down her neck, but she certainly wasn't going to cosmetically emphasize it.
She was now able to take and leave seats with little more than a twinge, which indicated how quickly her nearly-mortal wound was healing. The only thing that kept giving her a spot of trouble was her left hand and its three broken palm bones. Though she hourly tapped her thumb against each digit as directed by Dr. Lawn, an exercise as uncomfortable as it was necessary, Susan still couldn't form a fist with that hand. The last three fingers remained only loosely curled, and it looked like she was giving her living room the laziest OK sign ever given.
It didn't help that she unthinkingly used it to lift books or swat at Teatime when he was being annoying. The first action kept straining the healing bones and made her drop the book; the second never went anywhere, as Teatime always caught her by the wrist before she ever made contact. His grip, though loose, was as solid as steel, and it jolted the bones.
Nonetheless, after a full week had passed, the charade of Teatime-as-nurse passed as well. They'd soon settled into an odd companionship that saw him in her flat between three and nine hours every day. He stayed in a mid-range flat just Turnwise of Dolly Sisters, but if he did anything there but sleep and change from one set of black clothes to another, Susan would be surprised. He was always at her door by eight each morning. High-society matrons who did their visiting in the mornings began to sniff whenever they saw the door open to admit or issue forth that odd young man with the strange eyes. Some people were no better than they ought to be – or they should be no better than they ought to be, considering that one of them was a duchess. They whispered about seductions and sin, but they made sure to do the whispering when they were nowhere near either party who were the subject of the conversation.
Susan found it unsurprising and mildly amusing. One morning, as she was seeing Teatime out, she told him, "Oh, dear. Mrs. Devilliers has her opera glasses out again."
Teatime unerringly turned to look across the street, two doors down, and up to the third floor. A curtain fell back into place, panicked movements retreating behind its dubious safety.
He mused, "She isn't an Assassin, and I doubt she's joined the Thieves' Guild."
"Sorry?"
"Why else would she be casing your flat?"
It was all Susan could do not to laugh. Where she found the granddames' nosiness predictably silly, Teatime couldn't comprehend it at all.
"Who knows?" She shrugged. "Have a good day at work."
Lord Vetinari had Teatime looking into a number of murders of which all the victims were Igors. Rather, Teatime explained, the Patrician had him shadowing the Watch officers in charge of the investigations. While he explained over supper one evening, it became clear to Susan that 'shadowing' meant Teatime walked up to Captain Carrot and said he'd be tagging along, if that wouldn't be too much trouble for Captain Carrot. When Susan pointed out that perhaps Vetinari had intended something subtler, Teatime shrugged and answered, "I wish to be effective, not stylish. If he wanted someone invisible, he should have sent Clarke – or you."
Susan scoffed at the idea. She was a schoolteacher and a duchess – she preferred to think of them in that order – and the last thing she intended to do right now was investigate a bunch of murders that even Teatime described as weird. She told him she'd be satisfied just to hear his stories in the evenings. Besides, she'd already sent letters to her students' parents, announcing the opening of the spring semester in a month's time.
Meantime, she occupied herself by doing some light shopping as her health improved. She got supplies for the upcoming classes and refilled her pantry. It was with a childish sense of pride that she found herself walking a little farther each day without having to sit. The trip to Biers had been something of a triumph. One day, she had to hire a porter to deliver groceries; the next, she was able to sling a satchel over her neck and carry several pounds of apples home. Her greatest accomplishment so far had been when she returned the copy of Dr. K. Follett's Varyouse Applycations of Poisons to the Assassin's Guild. It was rather heavy. She'd also brought along her heavy, nearly unused book of cheques because she'd promised Lord Downey that he'd be compensated for his help. Susan strove to make good on all her promises. When the Master of the Guild saw the sum on the cheque, he offered further lessons, and Susan said she'd consider them.
Then she'd walked home without stopping. Then, she'd prepared supper, it being her turn to do so. The food turned out well. Teatime came home with a good story of the day and was less insufferable than he could be. It was a good day.
Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, the city's most well-known known female dwarf, hid her nervousness well, Teatime thought, but that might be more a function of his not having known enough dwarves to read their features with ease. Unless one has experience, it is very difficult to read the fifteen square inches of face left open by the necessary gap between hair and beard. However, Sgt. Littlebottom had had her brows groomed and was wearing eyeliner, which emphasized expression as much as it emphasized femininity, and Teatime got the impression that she was wary of him. Smart, if unnecessary at present.
Promising to send a report of any additional findings in the Igors case, she hurried him and Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson from her lab as quickly and as politely as was dwarfishly possible. Both men thanked her just before the door shut on their heels.
Captain Carrot shrugged down at Teatime. "Forensics. Everything you could possibly want to know about dead bodies."
"The Guild school taught me everything I needed to know about bodies," Teatime said indifferently. "Perhaps one of the guild experts could compare notes with Sgt. Littlebottom. I recommend Lady T'Malia."
The captain brightened. The effect was the human equivalent of someone turning up the wick in an oil lamp. Teatime listened politely to Captain Carrot's effusions about inter-agency cooperation. The elegant, aged lady in question was a mistress of poisons and was once a mistress of many other things of which an aged lady cannot as easily be mistress. She would probably flirt with the captain with equal shamelessness and ineffectiveness, which interested Teatime not at all; seeing her intellectually square off with a dwarf who had survived being in and being kicked out of the Alchemists' Guild would prove more entertaining.
Finally, as they left the main courtyard of Pseudopolis Yard, Captain Carrot drifted back to the main topic. "Fortunately, there have been no more murders in the last week, but we have exhausted the main avenues of inquiry on the cases we already have. Cheery's got all the evidence we could find at the crime scenes, and all the relatives and possible witnesses have given their statements."
"Captain Angua?"
With a look that was not so much sharp as assessing, Captain Carrot merely answered, "Scent bombs."
"Unfortunate, indeed," Teatime replied, mind already racing ahead. "With luck, when the next one occurs, I will be at hand." His scrying stone could sometimes focus itself on handy details that he might otherwise overlook.
"Hopefully, the next one won't happen at all," Captain Carrot said firmly. He even nodded for emphasis.
Oh, dear. He was serious. How dull.
They'd made it to two crime scenes, and Teatime had examined them both in good faith. They managed these two stops in four hours mainly because Captain Carrot insisted on 'proceeding', Watchman-style, around the city – politely, and earnestly citing Commander Vimes' teachings on the subject. It tried Teatime's patience sorely.
Finally, as they were approaching Attic Bee Street, Teatime stopped on the pavement and asked, "Where are we going next, please?"
Captain Carrot told him.
In turn, Teatime thanked him and said, "Excuse me." Then he grabbed the captain by the back of the neck with one hand and behind the left knee with the other; Teatime slung the man across his shoulders and moved. What would have been a walk of twenty minutes became a journey of not quite five. He set the captain on his feet again and was about to, as Susan put it, blip away, but he found that he was anchored to the spot by a redhead who had suddenly gone quite green.
He stared in wonder, partly because nearly no one was quick enough to lay a hand on him without his knowing about it beforehand and either permitting it or avoiding it, and partly because he hadn't expected Captain Carrot to get ill. Teatime certainly never got ill. Why would he? He was just moving from one place to another. Birds didn't get airsick, did they, nor fish seasick?
As it didn't appear that Captain Carrot was going to get sick on Teatime or retaliate in any way, Teatime stood and waited.
The captain finally requested, "Please don't do that again, Mr. Teatime."
Teatime, gratified by both the politeness of the request and the proper pronunciation of his surname, nodded his assent. He thought back four days, when Susan declined his offer to carry her across the city. He said musingly, "Perhaps I should give Susan more credit for forethought if everyone reacts this way." When Captain Carrot expressed curiosity, Teatime explained the situation. "It's ever so strange to think of Susan as sick, though," he said. "Injured perhaps, especially considering recent events. But ill? I'd as soon expect it of the sun."
"Then you're fortunate," Captain Carrot told him, solemnly shaking his head. "There's nothing worse than knowing your loved one is sick and there's nothing you can do about it."
This was untrue, Teatime knew deep in his heart. For one, knowing that your loved one is getting branded with a misused fire iron was probably worse. Feeling that oneself, he knew, was patently awful. Watching your loved one dissolve slowly from the inside as a result of a few very specific poisons was probably worse. Being unable to stop or revenge any of the above was probably worst of all.
But Teatime didn't vocalize any of these thoughts. Because his heart had begun to pound and his focus had gotten murderously narrow while he thought of the death of a loved one.
Because Captain Carrot had called him fortunate.
Because he had said, "loved ones".
Because he'd said "love".
Oh.
Though his companion had not been the most talkative companion Carrot had had while traveling across the city – that honor had gone to Nobby very early on when he'd gotten into both the petty cash jar and a pub within minutes of each other – Teatime had gone from the polite back-and-forth of a well-bred stranger straight into ground-examining introspection. Carrot hoped Teatime wasn't offended. He knew the Assassin was an orphan, so he probably shouldn't have brought up loved ones' illnesses. It was hard enough, he knew, to be separated from one's family, but the idea of losing them forever caused his eyes to prickle.
When he apologized for making things uncomfortable, Teatime had blinked at him in deep confusion. "Oh, I'm not uncomfortable," he answered, waving one hand as though to brush away the suggestion. "I'm just thinking."
They were both quiet for the next several hours, exchanging courtesies only when narrow passageways or the holding of doors necessitated it. They examined crime scenes – rather, Teatime did, using the weird feline trick of staring at nothing with a predatory intensity – in companionable silence. Carrot admitted to himself that he was surprised. He privately disapproved of the Assassins' Guild since they took lives and had frequently tried to take the lives of people he cared about, and he had expected to have to merely tolerate this Assassin's presence. He hadn't expected to get along with him fairly well. He acknowledged that the young man was terribly strange, what with the eyes and the odd chirpy way he had of speaking, but he was also courteous and actively listened when one spoke.
In fact, the silence had gotten so companionable that when Teatime broke it, Carrot jumped.
"I'm afraid I will be useless today, Captain," Teatime said, rising from a crouch and brushing the tips of his fingers together. "I have seen what is to be seen, but so much time has passed since the murder that I cannot possibly offer any of my observations as proof. Only suspicions, which I'm sure you have already thought of." He smiled; the lower lid slid up over the bottom half of his dark gray glass eye, and Carrot found the expression eerier than a neutral one. Even so, he thought that smile was a little wistful. "Besides, my mind has not been entirely focused on this task. I apologize."
Carrot sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling quite the heel. "I shouldn't have spoken of loved ones being sick. It's a very depressing topic. I'm sorry."
Again Teatime looked at him in bafflement. "You're sorry for the strangest things, Captain. I admit, I think there are worse things to feel than that, but it's just an opinion." His expression cleared a bit, and he went on, "And I'm not depressed. I'm thinking."
"Of?" That was impolite, Carrot knew. He shouldn't have asked, and he was about to apologize again when Teatime answered.
"Hogswatch gifts. You see, I don't get many. I give fewer. None, actually. It comes from not having very many friends," Teatime explained, frowning sadly. "But this year, I have someone to exchange gifts with. But I haven't gotten one for her. I'm trying to think of one."
Carrot felt his confused frown disappear. Oh. A her. Carrot could deal with that. "Can't go wrong with chocolates," he suggested.
Teatime tilted his head. "Perhaps. But I want this to be… personal." Absently, he put his hand to his belt, resting his hand on the hilt of one of his daggers. Carrot found himself tensing when Teatime's face lit up at the contact. Carrot knew about Teatime and his blades. Teatime grinned and chirped, "Do excuse me, Captain. I will have a written report of my observations for you tomorrow morning. Forgive me, but if I want a bespoke knife from Thorg Helmsnephew by Hogswatch, I'll need to speak with him now."
"That's less than two weeks away!"
"It will be quite an expensive knife. I think Susan will like it. Good day to you!"
Carrot was left staring at an empty flat and wondering why the Duchess of Sto-Helit would like a Helmsnephew blade.