++++++ Yes, Drumknott and Cheery, a match made in….the freakish corners of my mind. And now, enter the Patrician to stir the plot pot… Thanks for the reviews so far!++++++
Chapter 2: "I don't think she approves of me."
The Patrician set down his papers and folded his hands on the polished desk top. His face held a blankness that revealed nothing about his mood.
"Now, Drumknott. I won't beat about the proverbial bush. I've noticed lately a distressing change in your attitude toward your work."
Drumknott sat ramrod straight in his chair. He was staring at the carpeted floor.
"I understand that even the best of us have our bad spells," the Patrician continued. "Why, just last month there was a week in which I slept nearly five hours every night. Thankfully I'm out of that slump. Your difficulties have lasted several weeks now."
It was amazing, thought Drumknott, how many little knots of yarn – it was wool, like her hair -- went into forming a carpet. He'd already counted a hundred. 101, 102, 103…
The Patrician watched Drumknott for a moment. The young man had been in his service for six years and had proved himself the most intelligent, efficient clerk he'd ever had. Drumknott had come to be something of a…well, not a friend. Certainly not a son or even a nephew. Leave it at a valued assistant. Regardless, seeing him there, staring at the carpet as if it held the solution to the mysteries of life… Well, it was rather sad.
"On five separate occasions I rang for you in the middle of the night and you were nowhere to be found," said the Patrician.
"Sorry, sir," Drumknott mumbled. 115, 116, 117…
"Last week when I asked for the trout market report, you said, and I quote, 'The dog ate it.' This was highly dubious since papers give Wuffles an upset stomach." The Patrician's gaze turned stern. "And he doesn't like fish.
"Sorry, sir." 125, 126…
"I thought it quite low blaming your procrastination on a poor defenceless terrier."
Wuffles was the Patrician's one blind spot. With the exception of his master, no one who'd ever come in contact with Wuffles would call him defenceless. His flatulence alone had caused the untimely death of Marvin, a messenger pigeon unfortunate enough to be present at an emergency Watch meeting in the Oblong Office where Wuffles had a basket under the Patrician's desk. On Drumknott's first day as Vetinari's clerk, he'd had to remove the dog's fangs from his ankle without: 1) screaming, 2) leaving blood on his Lordship's carpet and 3) leaving any marks of violence on Wuffles. He'd achieved two out of the three.
"I've received reports of you mooning about outside Pseudopolis Yard," said the Patrician.
"I haven't mooned anyone, sir," Drumknott said gloomily.
The Patrician got up from his chair, circled his desk and leaned against it in what he hoped was a more casual attitude designed to encourage a more man-to-man conversation.
"This situation can not continue, Drumknott."
"No, sir."
"I expect utter efficiency and dedication from my staff."
"Yes, sir."
"I have other clerks prepared to take over your position."
"I know, sir."
"I am not a man known for favoritism."
"No, sir."
The Patrician was slightly annoyed that Drumknott kept addressing the carpet and wasn't holding up his end of the conversation. It was time to bring out the big gonnes. He softened his voice.
"It is natural for a young man to fall in love," he said.
Drumknott looked up. In six years he'd never heard the word come out of the Patrician's mouth. Running Ankh-Morpork was no love fest and the Patrician was not the type of man to have women falling all over him. He'd probably complain about the untidiness of his clothing afterward.
The Patrician sighed. "I want to help you, Drumknott."
"You do?"
"You're too valued an assistant to let go of simply because of an infatuation."
Drumknott jumped to his feet.
"I'm not infatuated!"
The Patrician put one slim finger to his lips. Drumknott slid back into his chair.
"It is the nature of the young to be passionate," said the Patrician. "High spirits and so forth. Yet we must examine the situation and find a solution that would enable you to return to your previous sterling work habits." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "What would help you, Drumknott? If the young…lady in question agreed to a date?"
One could not say that Drumknott's brain was functioning at optimal speed. He'd raised his voice at the Patrician -- a firing offence if his Lordship was in a good mood -- but that was not the half of it. The Patrician was talking about dates. Drumknott had always assumed the Patrician only knew about the kind of dates that fell out of trees, stuck to your fingers and melted all sugary in your mouth.
"She won't even talk to me," said Drumknott. There. It was out. He slumped in his chair.
The Patrician became alarmed at Drumknott's lack of posture. The young man seemed to crumple into himself. Surely, this was serious.
"You seem to do fine with the women around here," said the Patrician. His gaze turned stern again. "Despite that bit of high jinks with the stable boy."
"It doesn't work, sir! It's all so easy with the maids and cooks and…whoever…" Drumknott thought it prudent not to bring up the last visit of the Patrician's middle aged but still amorous aunt. "…She won't even look at me. I've sent her presents and everything." His voice trailed away to a whisper. "I don't think she approves of me. You know, sir. As a…non-dwarf."
The Patrician nodded.
"Though interspecies relationships are increasingly common in Ankh-Morpork, dwarf-human pairs are extremely rare," he said.
"I know," Drumknott groaned.
"As I understand it, what pairs there are tend to be male dwarves with female…people." The Patrician considered a moment. "I would think the other way around may cause trouble. Who gets to use the razor first, and so forth."
"Sir…"
"Pardon, Drumknott. That was uncalled for." The Patrician went briskly back to his chair. "The young lady must be convinced. You are what I imagine a woman would consider a good catch."
"Sir, you're not thinking of…"
"Hmm? Oh, I wouldn't dream of interfering in your private life, Drumknott. Heavens no." The Patrician smiled, and that worried Drumknott. His Lordship never smiled without a reason.
"Please, sir. I'll take care of it. I really will." Drumknott straightened in his chair to show the immediate benefits of his new resolve. "I was thinking of learning a love poem in Dwarfish."
"Urzgh Kr'ak Zut might impress her," said the Patrician.
Drumknott stared. "You know Dwarfish, sir?"
"Oh, a smattering. The Dwarves are a highly artistic people, Drumknott. One wouldn't guess it from their mining excellence and indigestible cuisine. Yet they excel at opera and they value the well-written word." The Patrician pressed his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I imagine the young lady's iron heart might soften if you gave her a few choice verses in Dwarfish."
He stared into space for a moment, then grasped a quill and began to write. Drumknott watched, fascinated, until the Patrician was finished.
"Try this. Copied in your own hand, of course."
Drumknott could make nothing of the words. Some of them looked to be pronounceable only if the speaker swallowed his tongue. "What's it say, sir?"
"The rough translation would be: "Yours, my love, is the right face, Dwarfish bloom, raving, bathing, sub-disc brilliance, splendour mined… leaving me here in half delight, half shiver." The Patrician waved a hand. "And so on."
"My gods, sir," said Drumknott. "That's…good."
The Patrician flashed him a quick smile. "Not all that difficult if you have the knack." He sliced an envelope with a letter opener that looked suspiciously like a small dagger. "Do copy it out carefully, Drumknott. You don't want to know what the word Slurzk means if the k is replaced by a p."