[Let me emphasize once more – I don't own the Discworld. Terry Pratchett does.]
The young Assassins filtered solemnly out of the Dining Hall. It was time for Room Picks [1], and some lucky sod was going to get the posh furniture.
Downey sat on the table and stared blankly at the shards of the broken blade. The whiskbroom of disaster was slowly brushing away the obscuring dust of drunkeness from his brain. It was all becoming horribly clear. There was no escaping Fate. Not with this many witnesses.
Maybe, Downey thought, Lady Calomel would be easy on him, and he would just be expelled, in two or three pieces at the very most. He began considering the openings available with the local beggars. If he learned to curb his sneering a little, he could make a living wage. Certainly the beggars needed another down-on-his-luck legless, armless, ex-Assassin nobleman!
On second thought, they probably had enough already. And the thought of earning a living wage made the alternative seem quite attractive, in Downey's eyes. A Downey, even a disowned Downey, could never plead or scratch a living from the soil. It was a matter of pride, really. No, begging was out of the question.
"Would Lady Calomel really kill me," thought Downey, "when I've been such a good, responsible –"
"NEPHEW! What is this?"
[1] At many colleges and universities, Room Picks are a cutthroat business, with students going to extreme lengths to secure "the nice room, you know, the one with the couch." Young Assassins just draw lots; they know a minefield when they see it.
* * *
Lady Calomel was an excellent shrieker – what her mezzo-soprano tones lacked in subtlety they easily made up for in crystal-shattering volume and pitch. How she managed to fit that much noise in her thin frame was one of the great enigmas of the Disc. Listen; this is a command performance.
"So you drank five Old Peculiars and broke the Founder's Blade on a bet!"
It is to Downey's credit that he did not correct her on this point. If he had replied that, no, he had broken the stiletto on a wall, it would have doubtless gone badly with him. As it happened, he was almost as good at groveling as Aunt Deirdre was at shrieking.
"I'm really veryveryvery sorry Aunt! It won't happen again!"
"Of course it won't, you stupid ox. There's no BLADE left to BREAK!"
"Please, Aunt, I know how you love your knives so, but it was an accident and I was a bit tipsy and you can get another, can't you please don't kill me! Please? Please?"
"Don't grovel, boy. I don't want to have to kill you."
Downey rejoiced inwardly at this news. She had certainly fooled him. If she didn't want to kill him, she might be willing to pull a few strings, or possibly frame some scag for the whole mess and forget about it.
"Then again," said Lady Calomel after a moment's pause, "maybe I do want to have to kill you." Her voice was becoming dangerously quiet. "You abused my trust, broke into my room, stole a priceless treasure, and placed me in a very bad position. Now, do you have any idea what I should do with you?"
Think quick, thought Downey, use the old Downey brains.
"Ah, don't kill me?"
"You always were a fool, boy, did you know that?" Lady Calomel sighed, pulled up a chair, and sighed again, for effect. "The faculty will want to know what happened to the Blade," she said levelly, "and they'll want a culprit. If I report you, they'll kill you and I'll lose my place here. If I don't report you, they'll kill me for failing to find the thief and you'll live. Do you understand, boy?"
"I'm veryveryveryvery sorry can I pay for it?" Downey knew full well that he couldn't possibly pay for the stiletto, except possibly with his life, but asking might be a good show of faith. Certainly he couldn't have known how expensive it really was if was offering to pay for it, right? [1] He silently hoped that none of his classmates were watching him grovel; it would be the ultimate humiliation.
On cue, a young man in grey stepped out of the shadows. He had been watching.
With speed that a cockroach on Jink [2] would envy, Lady Calomel pulled a dagger from her sash and did a tight backflip over the back of her chair, landing in a crouch while simultaneously flinging a dagger at Havelock Vetinari.
Under most circumstances, this maneuver would have been truly impressive, and garnered at least a 9.8 from any watching judges. However, the fact that the dagger missed its mark entirely would have likely earned a heavy deduction. With a complete disregard for the look of the thing, Havelock Vetinari had stepped one foot to the side during the somersault. Unfazed, he bowed politely.
"My name is Havelock Vetinari. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Calomel."
There was an awkward pause.
"Madam, you cut through your sash. Might I suggest a curtain rope?"
[1] This reasoning represented the intellectual high point of Downey's day. It's all downhill from here.
[2] Jink, the second-most controlled substance on the Disc, induces sleeplessness and sudden bursts of agility and speed. Unfortunately, the effect is not always perfectly distributed throughout the body, and several tragic deaths have been attributed to Displacement Syndrome, wherein one's brain cannot keep pace with one's skull, and soon finds itself in a different room entirely.
* * *
After readjusting her nightgown, which now featured a silk-rope belt, Lady Calomel stepped out from behind the Great Tapestry and tried to maintain her composure.
"Did you hear us? Where were you?"
"I was simply waiting for a chance to speak."
Downey ground his teeth as silently as he could. This was just too much. The worst part of it was that Dog-Botherer was certain to tell nobody about the groveling. Suddenly, Downey realized, having the entire student body aware of his humiliation seemed far less terrible. "Vetinari," he muttered, "you could hide in the shadow of a bleeding flame."
"I have never tried, Downey. Now, I have a suggestion that you may find practical. Unless you have a better idea, of course. In that case, I would very much like to hear it."
Without awaiting a reply, Vetinari retrieved the dagger embedded in the Inhumagraphium behind him, polished the blade with his sleeve, and placed it on the table for Lady Calomel. Soundlessly tucking the knife back into her sash, the Keeper of the Blades watched as Vetinari turned his back to her and checked the painting for any significant damage.
Lady Calomel was impressed. This one had Nerve. He had Style. And, most importantly, he had cleaned the dagger. Downey, she felt, could learn a few things from him. "What," she asked, "is your suggestion?"
"Before I discuss my proposal, I would appreciate it, madam, if you assuaged my curiosity. How did Downey find the blades? You are very careful with them, no doubt. Surely you had them… well-protected." Vetinari raised his eyebrows slightly and turned to Downey. This was a moment to treasure.
Sweat was trickling down Downey's forehead. "Well, I can explain that, actually."
"Quiet. One of the terms of the boy's allowance – or, as he prefers to call it, stipend, hah - is that he must perform chores. Last week, I told him to use what he learned in class to set traps in my room for potential thieves. I already had traps set up, of course, but I disarmed them so that the fool wouldn't get himself killed."
"You desired to see if he had been listening in class?"
"Yes. In any case, the boy surprised me, and did a decent job of it. I paid him the five dollars we agreed to." Here she stopped and turned back to Downey. "In hindsight, it was probably the worst five dollars I ever spent."
Downey fished around in his side pocket for his wallet. He fervently hoped he had taken the teddy bear pictures out of it when he bought it the day before; more humiliation was the last thing he needed. Now, it was time to grease the wheels a bit. "Oh, would you like a refund?"
A glare from his aunt silenced him, as only the glares of aunts can. She was growing impatient. Vetinari was certainly taking his time in making his point. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he enjoyed this.
"Madam, I suggest that you make a replica of the Founder's Blade."
Lady Calomel was disappointed. She had expected better; the boy had looked bright. For a moment, she had actually believed that he had the solution.
"Havelock," she said, "there are three problems there. First, an expert could easily detect a forgery. Second, Commencement is tomorrow, and we could hardly forge a … forgery overnight. Finally, even if we had the time, nobody would be willing to do such a risky job. No, you should go to bed and forget you saw any of this."
Leaning forward on the table, Vetinari looked directly into Lady Calomel's eyes. She found that it was rather like being stared down by a crossbow.
"Madam, the first problem poses no difficulty. You are the expert. If you state that the blade is authentic, then the blade is obviously authentic. As for the second and third problems – I did not suggest using a blacksmith. You may wish to find assistance elsewhere. May I suggest Unseen University?"
"What? Get involved with those crooked parasites? They would turn us into something dreadful, I'm sure of it!"
Vetinari expected denseness from a woman who trusted Downey to set her traps, but this was far too much. He smothered a sigh, and replied calmly. "Lady Calomel, I was referring to the students, not the faculty. There are many, ah, blossoming young talents there. Apprentices willing to do nearly anything for a week of ale money."
Vetinari paused a moment. Did he have to spell everything out?
"Including illusion work. Good evening, madam."
The double doors of the hall slowly shut. Very subtly, Vetinari smiled as he walked back to his room. What sort of Assassin wears a long scarf to a potential inhumation?
A red scarf! An Assassin, thought Vetinari, should be as visible as dust on the wall.
* * *
Lady Calomel slipped soundlessly through the halls of Unseen University, stopping frequently to stand behind pillars and peek around them, dramatically glancing about. Her instincts told her that the students would be found as far away from the faculty as possible. Slowly and deliberately, she moved turnwise, away from the Administration Department.
Downey walked behind her, the soles of his boots slapping the stone floors loudly. It was best, he decided, to let Aunt Deirdre have her fun. She had been behind a desk for years now, and this was the closest she was going to get to recapturing the glories – mediocrities, actually - of her youth. It wouldn't do to antagonize her.
Although, come to think of it, he was rather annoyed that she wouldn't let him show her the map he picked up at the Bursar's Office. She wouldn't even ask for him to direct her; at this rate, it would take them at least another hour to find the dormitories.
On second thought, was that the Student's Hall up ahead? "Of course," thought Downey, "I've been holding the map upside-down. That could be it."
"Is anybody still up at this hour, or has Dog-Botherer sent us here for nothing?"
"Quiet, boy. Look, there's light under that door. Room 7a."
Calomel strode up to the door and knocked in a suitably Wagnerian manner. The booming thuds reverberated through the halls, as all midnight knocks do, and there was the sound of the room's occupant stumbling about. The door creaked open. A boy peeked out.
He looked rather like a shabby, teenaged weasel.
(To be continued. Yes, I'm aware that the Dustmen of the title haven't appeared yet. They will.)