"It was an accident, sir."
Cheery wasn't at Pseuodopolis Yard when Drumknott arrived that evening clutching his copy of the Dwarfish verse that he'd written on thick, creamy parchment. He leaned it against a beaker in her lab, the smelly room with all of the jars and mixing bowls.
He dropped by the next day to see if she'd got it. Cheery was performing some sort of delicate experiment when he popped his head in.
"Good afternoon, Corporal," he said cheerfully.
There was the sound of breaking glass, an angry fizz and Cheery flew into Drumknott's arms. In the split second before the room exploded, he was thinking: "That was a good poem."
Pseudopolis Yard remained evacuated for a good hour until Detritus and the golem Constable Dorfl chased out the toxic fumes by fanning the air with large pieces of masonry. It was not a good time for Drumknott.
"Why'd you go and sneak up on me?" Cheery demanded. Smoke rose from her beard and she smelled of burnt hair.
"I just wanted to say hello and see if you'd—"
"You don't just say hello when I'm working! Do you know how long I'd been doing that experiment? It was going to reveal what kind of shoe polish the murderer of Stocky Williamson used." Cheery waved a stubby, soot-covered arm at the group of milling watchmen outside the Yard. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm going to be in?"
Drumknott's heart bled. "Believe me, Cheery--"
She glared.
"--Constable, the last thing I want in the world is to hurt you in any way. I just--"
"LITTLEBOTTOM!"
Cheery groaned. "See? See? Commander Vimes is going to go spare." She squared her shoulders and waited for the wrath of His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes to descend on her like a piano full of bricks.
Vimes had been in what one could call a good mood on only three days of his entire life. His wedding day and the day his son was born were the top two. In the 40-odd years before those events, he'd had one good day when he was ten and won the kickball game with the neighborhood bully by spontaneously rewriting the rules about which balls were going to be kicked. All other days in Vimes' life fell into the range of Tolerable through Why Was I Ever Born.
Currently, the day was ranked a Why the Bloody Hell Did I Get Up This Morning. Vimes clenched his unlit cigar in his teeth and glared down at Cheery.
"Once every three months, Littlebottom," he said. "That was our agreement. Once every three months. You said…now wait, I remember this distinctly, you said…" His voice changed to a higher pitch. "… Yes, commander, I assure you I will cause the Yard to be evacuated no more than once a quarter." His voice went back to normal. "It's Sektober. The last little incident we had was in…let's see…" He made a show of counting on his fingers. "My word! Will you look at that? Less than two months ago! How could this happen?"
Cheery was about to explain when Drumknott stepped heroically in front of her.
"It's my fault, commander," he said. "If there's anyone to be reprimanded here, it's me."
Vimes squinted at Drumknott. "You're the Patrician's clerk." He straightened up and looked around suspiciously. "Where is he? I think I got some papers missing…"
"He's not here, sir," said Drumknott. "But let me say that Cheery Littlebottom is your best officer. Her dedication to the job is second to--"
Cheery stamped her boot heel into his shoe. "Cut it out, all right? I'm in enough trouble as it is."
Vimes glared at Drumknott.
"If the Patrician's not around, what're you doing here?"
"I was just paying a social visit."
"Which led to the explosion of the laboratory."
Drumknott squirmed under the commander's laser gaze. "Er…It was an accident, sir."
"I don't hold with explosive social visits, Mr. Drumknott," said Vimes. "Truth be told, I don't hold with social visits of any kind. Too many cucumber sandwiches." Vimes had been born in that social class called the working poor but had the (mis)fortune to marry a noblewoman who sweetly coerced him into attending garden parties in the summer. "If it's all the same to you, keep your social visiting outside the Yard, all right?"
When the commander left, Cheery shook her head, a hand over her eyes. Her nails were painted fire engine red. Drumknott gazed at her like she'd floated in on the half shell. A paragon, she was. A lady fair. A stunning queen of sublime beauty…
"Did you like the verses?" he asked.
Cheery dropped her hand from her eyes. "They were….nice," she said grudgingly.
Oh joy! If a couple dozen watchmen hadn't been around, Drumknott would have done a spontaneous jig in the street. Instead, he grinned like he'd just won Klatch in the lottery.
"Then maybe…er…maybe we could—"
"Don't think a few verses will make up for what you did today," Cheery said sternly. "I'll be cleaning up this mess for a week. So if you'll excuse me…" She stomped up the front steps of the Yard, covered her nose and mouth with her arm and stepped into the last remaining fumes.
As he walked through the crowd of idle watchmen outside the smoking, foul smelling headquarters, Drumknott felt that progress had been made. When he was a ways down the street, he jumped into the air and clicked his heels.
Drumknott had changed again. In the hallways of the palace, he strutted. As he filed papers for the Patrician, he whistled. His reports were just as sloppy as they'd been when he was depressed, but now it was due to excessive daydreaming. He waited around Pseudopolis Yard some evenings. Cheery had once given him a full minute of grudging conversation and he longed for more. She still wouldn't allow him to enter her lab or walk her home but at least she didn't glare at him anymore.
This improved state of affairs had one hook. Once every few days, Drumknott appealed to the Patrician for another few lines of Dwarvish verse. The stuff the Patrician came up with was, in Drumknott's mind, nothing less than brilliant. All lustrous feeling and splendid sentiment. Drumknott hadn't known the Patrician had it in him.
One day, Drumknott got up the confidence to broach an issue that he'd been wondering about over the previous two weeks.
"Your Lordship," he said, "your verse really is exceptional."
"Thank you, Drumknott." The Patrician signed the last in a stack of papers and flexed his ink-stained fingers.
"It makes me wonder, sir…" Drumknott stood beside his master's desk, unsure of how to word what he was about to say. "That is, I couldn't help but think that it's not exactly your style. Love poetry. But you do it so well."
"We all have our little talents."
"I mean, sir, that you're really good at it. Like you've had some practice."
The Patrician looked puzzled. "Poetry is simply an arrangement of words in a manner designed to please the reader and awaken some sentiment or realization. There's nothing too difficult about that." He leaned back in his chair. "Words are my specialty."
Drumknott pursued the point with a stubbornness that in anyone else might be called suicidal when dealing with the Patrician. "It seems to me that love poetry requires a certain amount of understanding of…" He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. "…love."
He opened them. The Patrician was smiling.
"I have to disagree with you on that point, Drumknott," he said. "Love is completely inscrutable. It can not be understood. But it can be studied, just like any other subject." His smile faded a little. "It is not necessary to personally experience the…upheaval… of love to gain insight into how it functions."
Drumknott wasn't altogether satisfied with this, but he let the matter drop. He sighed as he tucked a few papers into his satchel.
"Cheery likes the poetry but I don't think it's enough anymore," he said. "I was thinking…well, I know where she lives. Second floor of a house in Turnpound Street. I know right where her window is. I could just… maybe… serenade her…" He stared off into space.
The Patrician studied his clerk.
"Drumknott?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you know how to sing?"
"Not really, sir."
"Hmm. And do you know how to play any musical instruments?"
"I learned the recorder in school, sir."
"Ah. And do you know any Dwarvish songs?"
"Only ones about gold, sir. She doesn't like those."
The Patrician imagined a serenade of songs about gold performed on the recorder. He repressed a smile. "It would seem, Drumknott, that a more classical serenade beneath the lady's window might be a bit out of your purview."
Drumknott nodded glumly. "But I'm so sure that would do it, sir. She'd come around." He held out his thumb and index finger. "She's that close."
The Patrician gazed at his clerk and sighed. It was somehow inevitable. The serenade came after the love letters. It was an ancient feature of both human and Dwarvish theater. The Patrician didn't much hold with the theater but he knew its conventions. Drumknott was right. A serenade would probably crack the lady's last bit of resistance.
"If you do this serenade, Drumknott, will you finally stop the nonsense and get your mind back on your work?"
"I think so, sir."
The Patrician held up a finger. "That's not good enough. The answer must be more along the lines of: 'Yes, certainly, sir.' Or else I'll have to re-consider helping you."
Drumknott nearly dropped his satchel. "You would--"
"Don't make a scene, Drumknott. Just tell me that regardless of the outcome of the serenade, you will return to your former work habits."
At that point, Drumknott would have promised anything.
++++++++ Stay tuned for the conclusion!++++++++