Nobody's mine. Nobody whatsoever, in any way soever, whomsoever they be, belongs to me. Ooh... it rhymes... (Sorry, not a good idea to write these intolerable disclaimers late at night!)
It was hard to switch off the inner policeman. As Vimes' conscious mind whirled with horror and disgust, his subconscious watched intently as a greasy little man left the palace, grinning horribly. It seized that gloating grin and analysed why it could be there. And as those calculations percolated through his roiling mind, he slowly froze in horror.
The creature was halfway across the square, going quite fast despite his hunched, lopsided gait. Vimes gave chase, the idea going to his feet like electricity with no intervening thought. Almost as he reached him, Vimes' brain caught up.
There was no way, once he'd got the man, that he could say anything. Even if he was right, there could be no charge. He could do nothing.
His old thoughts, forgotten in the chase, hit him as if he'd called the Librarian a monkey. What in the name of all the gods could he do now?
He fumbled for his cigar case and opened it. His heart contracted.
To Sam, with love from your Sybil.
Gods.
The guards at the Palace gate stood aside as he stumbled in. He looked as though he would have been hard pressed to see them, let alone do anything about it if they had been in his way, but even more he looked like a man about to shatter. Anger? Grief? Pain? The palace guards were about as perceptive as the wrong end of a telescope, but they felt the visceral emotions rolling from the Duke of Ankh in waves. They stood aside.
In the waiting room with its horrible clock, Sam Vimes hesitated for the first time since that moment in the square. Could he? Should he?
He knocked on the door rather more loudly then he had intended to, and imagined the lift of that delicate black eyebrow. He scrubbed at his eyes, willing them to stop seeing the Patrician, and pressed a hand to his mouth as that voice called "Come!"
He leaned on the door, feeling as if he was wearing boxing gloves, his hands too clumsy to operate the handle, and stared at the face that haunted his mind. "Gngn..." was all he managed to choke through his tight throat. The pain in his chest was worse. He needed a drink.
He needed to shut his eyes. He knew he was staring with his mouth hanging open, but his body felt like someone else's. His mind was full of those eyes - that skin - that hairline - those hands that were even now gripping him, holding him upright, helping him to a chair.
Drink, he thought, and then, Say it. He swallowed until he thought he could speak.
"I'm... sorry."
