Hello Chaps and Chapettes. It's been rather a while since I've posted to this section, and I warn now that updates may be a little infrequent to this fic as I am working on two others at the moment concurrently and sitting some fairly major exams... but... here is chapter one, apologies if it doesn't make a fantastic amount of narrative sense. I promise all will be explained... when I get round to writing chapter 2... The summary will eventually make sense too, I swear. Just give me time! Oh, and I know there is some debate about whether there are steps down to the cells of the Watch House before someone flags that up... and I do apologise if Vimes sounds a little OOC at the end of this chapter. But after re-reading Feet of Clay I think that the quiet brooding side to the Commander does emerge when his past and his family are involved in things, rather than the angry not-so-young man. Enough ramble. Reviews greatly appreciated!

- Lunar

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Night unfolded over Ankh-Morpork, shades of dark blue and purple gradually infiltrating the orange-red of sunset. A gentle breeze from the Sto Plains bought with it cool relief from the heat of an unusually warm day. In the gardens and window boxes plants had wilted under a fierce sun; only those on the crust of the river Ankh remained standing, their roots extending below the famously turgid surface to the excellent liquid fertiliser beneath.

The breeze flapped the curtains in the open window of Sam Vimes's bedroom, bringing with it the sweet smell of pollen from the gardens below, making his nose twitch. He mumbled something inaudible in his sleep as he shifted position uncomfortably.

Vimes sneezed violently and woke up suddenly, blinking in the dim light of his bedroom. The covers had been thrown off his legs, it being far too hot to sleep under them. He groped for his watch on the bedside table. Nearly eleven o'clock. At his side Lady Sybil turned over in her sleep to face him. Vimes lay awake, debating whether or not to close the windows. Seemingly the pollen from various night-flowers was irritating his nose, but in closing the window the temperature could grow quite oppressive.

Eventually he turned over himself, deciding the breeze on his bare legs was worth more, and he promptly fell asleep.

Elsewhere in the city Captain Carrot was on swing patrol, moving through the dusty street with a patina of honest sweat and a cheerful grin as he waved to various citizens. The heat, as always, had tamed Ankh-Morpork. No one was moving above a walk even as the heat was fading, engulfed by the gathering dark.

*

The sound of a newspaper being pushed through the letterbox awoke Vimes early the next morning, although it was the third time he had been roused since lying down to sleep, once by sneezing and once by a crying baby. He lay in bed for some time, listening to birdsong through the still open window. Already in the air was the smell of a summer's morning.

Some time later he wandered into the breakfast room, buttered toast in hand, enjoying a lazy morning where he wasn't immediately summoned to the office to deal with an escalating situation. He sat back in one of the wooden chairs, enjoying a moment of peace.

There was a sharp tap on the front door. Vimes ignored it, closing his eyes and slumping further into the chair. /Please/ he thought, /Let me have a morning off/.

He could hear Wilkins's voice talking with someone on the doorstep. It didn't sound like Carrot; the second speaker was quiet, voice low and muted. The butler materialised in the doorway of the breakfast room.

"There's man on the doorstep sir," Wilkins said, "Name of Andrew. Says he wants to speak to you."

"Andrew?" Vimes said, bewildered. He brushed some crumbs of toast off his trouser. "Um. Okay. I'll go and see what he wants..."

He hurried through the house to the ancestral hall where 'Andrew' was waiting. From behind he was a fairly short man with greying hair almost white around his ears. Vimes didn't recognise him. "Hello?"

The man turned and Vimes's jaw dropped open in shock as he stared into the face of a man he hadn't seen for thirty-five years.

"Hello Sam," said Andrew, smiling. "Long time no see."

"Andrew?!"

"Yeah. How're you keeping brother? Nice place you've got here. I asked at the Watch House about you. I knew you'd end up there. Amazing isn't it, you barely knew Dad and yet you've still managed to turn into him... It's like looking into the past, seeing your face."

"Andrew!?"

"Yeah," Andrew replied, smiling offhandedly, "Can I come in?"

"You're dead!"

Andrew's smile broadened. "Good trick wasn't it?"

Most of Vimes's brain was currently struggling to make sense of the unbelievable event occurring before his eyes but at the most basic level a wave of anger rippled through his consciousness. Unfortunately, it appeared to drain into his fist as the memories assailed him. Unstoppable as a planet it moved towards Andrew, catching him under the chin and throwing him backwards into the door lintel.

Vimes sucked his knuckles in bewilderment. "Sam?" said a voice behind him.

Sybil descended the stairs. "Who's that?" she demanded, pointing to the man lying unconscious in their hall.

"Er," Vimes said. "This could take some explaining..."

*

Lady Sybil laid the wet cloth across Andrew's forehead as he lay on their sofa. She inspected the marks on his chin that matched the bruises on her husband's hand. "Goodness me Sam," she said, "For someone so skinny you pack quite a punch." Vimes ran a hand distractedly through his greying hair, nodding as if in answer to a question, entirely distracted. Sybil shot Vimes an enquiring look. "Are you going to tell me why I'm having to revive a man who you knocked out on our front doorstep?"

Vimes sat down in his armchair with a sigh. "You remember when we were drawing up the guest list for our wedding?"

"Yeeess," Sybil replied, confused.

"Well, you know I said that I didn't have any relatives to invite? That all of my close family were dead?"

"Yes," Sybil repeated, beginning to catch on.

"Well. This is Andrew. He's my older brother. He... died... when I was twelve."

Sybil blinked in confusion. "He's not grey enough to be a zombie," she replied.

"He was... uh, murdered I guess, by... a gang he owed money to when he was seventeen. I-" Vimes broke off. The years of his life between the ages of fourteen and seventeen were not one he paticularly wanted to revisit; much less reveal to his wife.

She met his troubled eyes, registered the stony line of his mouth. "What don't you want to tell me, Sam?" she asked.

At that precise moment Sam Vimes junior woke up and opened his mouth to let his parents know. The baby's cries echoed shrilly down the stairs from where he had been asleep in his cot. "Saved by the bell," Sybil smiled, standing up.

Left alone to his thoughts Vimes tried to ignore the nagging recollections from thirty five years ago. Andrew Vimes stirred on the sofa. "Gods Sam. You've worked on that right hook."

"Why are you-? How are you-? What are you doing here?" Vimes stuttered.

"I- I got fed up of wandering Sam. I thought after so long it'd be safe now. I asked about you around town. In my old boozer, the Drum. Someone said you lived up in Scoone Avenue so I just knocked on doors until I found you."

"I thought you were dead! The fire-" Vimes stopped again, repressing the memories.

"Yeah, well I'm quite hard to kill Sam. Faking my own death was the only way I could see out."

"The only way out!" Vimes shouted, fury erupting again, "You /faked/ your own death to get out! You- you /started/ it? Do you know what happened once you were gone? /I/ had to pay off the debts! At fourteen I had to leave school to run errands for them! They broke my arm twice in three weeks!"

The door opened to admit Lady Sybil. "Hello," said Andrew, standing with a wince and bowing. "You are?"

"Sybil Vimes," Sybil replied, accepting Andrew's proffered hand.

"My wife," Vimes rumbled.

"Andrew Vimes," Andrew returned, "Sam's older brother."

"I heard you were dead," Sybil said innocently.

"Yeah," Andrew replied, uncomfortably. "Congratulations are in order I believe," he added quickly trying to change the subject. "I read in the paper. A little boy it said. Named after his Dad?"

"Andy," Vimes said suddenly, "What are you /doing/ here?" Andrew opened his mouth to speak but Vimes plunged onwards. "Is it money? If you want some, you can have it. Name your price. Just take it and don't come back."

"Sam!" Sybil admonished, shocked.

Andrew was still smiling, although there was tightening of his jaw and a darkening of his brown eyes that for a moment made the two brothers look even more alike. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked, tone light but something of a threat in his words.

"I haven't seen you for thirty five years. But at seventeen you were quite prepared to..." he stopped, glanced at his wife for a moment and then continued. "... do what you did. I've spent the last thirty odd years believing you're dead. And I'm fine with that. Just go."

Andrew frowned, opened his mouth to argue but stopped. "Alright Sam. I'm at the YMPA if you change your mind."

Without another word he followed Vimes to the front door. "Goodbye," Vimes said when the older man was standing on the gravel. He shut the door firmly.

He turned around to see Sybil standing in the doorway. "Sam, I know you don't want to talk about-"

"Then don't," he replied quietly, stalking away to his study. The click of the lock sounded particularly loud in the shocked silence that followed his statement. Sybil Vimes was not a woman prone to emotional outbursts. For a moment her lower lip trembled, he eyes overbright with tears. Then her sensible instincts overrode her emotional response and she went off to check her son again, before cleaning out the dragon pens.