The deal with the Watch launched the campaign. Hanna paid owners of buildings at busy intersections for the right to have add-word-icing painted ten feet high on the walls. Within a week, the off-duty (i.e. helmet-less and sandal-less) watchman with an Ansbach in his hand could be seen across the city. The Patrician went out in his carriage to examine the billboards, then went for a quiet chat with Vimes. Within another few days, the ads had been painted over.
That hardly mattered now because the word was already out. Other bars were beginning to demand the same deal the Bucket had. And Hanna was on the next part of her plan. She enlisted the more entrepreneurial of merchants to set up stands in the public squares where samples of various beers could be tasted for free. Customers who chose Ansbach as the best tasting of the unlabeled samples received a free beer. It was called the "Ansbach Challenge." Morporkians blocked the streets as they lined up for a try. The word free had that effect on them.
Next, she stopped by for a chat with an old friend who did the beverage purchasing at Unseen University, the Disc's college of magic. This was a full time job because wizards were full time eaters and, by extension, drinkers. Basically, they weren't picky about what they drank as long as it stayed within the university budget and went down well with whatever meal happened to be on the table. After a few happy reminiscences about her visits when he was a student, Hanna's friend put in for a large order of Ansbach. Then he went to have a lie down.
It was also natural for the Guild of Seamstresses to pitch in and help their prominent sister. Mrs. Palm, president of the guild, didn't hesitate to approve a flyer Hanna presented that advertised both the beer and the services of the guild. The drawing was simple, just a bold design of the Ansbach crown pierced by a needle. Above, it stated: "A seamstress and an Ansbach." Below: "Feel like a king." Seamstresses passed out copies on the streets or flirted with shop owners until they let them tack them in the windows.
The Patrician was finishing his evening meal at the palace while reading a book entitled A Short History of the Ansbach Diaspora: Year 500 to the Present which he had propped up on a lectern beside his plate. He didn't look up when his clerk Drumknott entered.
"I thought you might want to see the Ansbach flyers, sir," said Drumknott.
The Patrician turned a page and took one last bite of chicken. Not long ago he'd considered dry toast an adequate dinner but an off-hand comment from Hanna about his thinness had given him the occasional urge to eat meals of more substance.
"I saw them this morning," he said.
"The new versions, sir?"
Drumknott set the flyers in front of him. The Patrician glanced down. The first was exactly the same as what he'd seen earlier in the day. The crown and the needle. The words: "A seamstress and an Ansbach. Feel like a Patric--"
Lord Vetinari coughed so long that Drumknott had to whack him on the back. When the chicken finally made it down, the Patrician gulped a glass of water. He pulled himself together long enough to look at the second flyer.
Folding it quickly, he said, "Find Miss Stein."
**
The man in the white suit sat with his legs crossed in a manner that Mr. Jocko, head of the Guild of Brewers, was not altogether comfortable with. It was a slightly effeminate look the man had as he sat in Jocko's office. The shiny white suit, the puffy tie, the blond hair slicked down until it shone in the light from the candelabra overhead. An altogether strange look for the owner of a brewery.
But then, Daniel Fillwater had inherited Winkles Brewery and managed it the way most heirs did, by hiring people who knew the business. All he needed to know was the bottom line. He had a wife and three children, whom he was willing to support in the fashion to which they were accustomed as long as they stayed in Psuedopolis.
He removed a paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it.
"Mr. Jocko, are you still aware that the Winkles Corporation is the single largest payer of dues to the guild?"
"Yes, Mr. Fillwater," said Jocko.
Winkles was the largest brewery in the city, and with guild dues calculated according to number of employees, its payments formed a good fifteen percent of guild revenue. The Winkles Corporation, however, was a new entity made up of the old Winkles brewery and several smaller breweries Fillwater had purchased in the past year. Jocko suspected him of wanting to forge some kind of monopoly in the brew business.
Fillwater smiled over the paper in his hand. "So you are also aware that dips in Winkles profits, and the subsequent removal of employees, would be an unfortunate situation felt not only by me and my workers but by the guild as well?"
"Of course, Mr. Fillwater." Jocko was staring at the back of the paper. His sweaty palms were planted squarely on his knees.
"Well, then," said Fillwater, settling a monocle in his left eye and perusing the paper, "you will understand why I was slightly alarmed at last month's profit figures. Pardon. Profit figure would be the better term. Do you know what that figure is, Mr. Jocko?"
"No, Mr. Fillwater."
"Then I will certainly tell you. It is exactly the same amount as what the Winkles Corporation will pay in guild dues from now on if things with the Ansbachers don't get sorted out." Fillwater's left eye looked massive in its monocle. "You will surely recognize this figure. It is short and has an unpleasantly round shape."
The three remaining wisps of hair on Jocko's head waved as he nodded.
"We'll be talking about the problem at the guild meeting tonight, Mr. Fillwater," he said. "Will you be there?"
"A Winkles representative will attend." Fillwater put away the monocle, and Jocko relaxed a little. "I trust the guild to do its duty," said Fillwater. "And I suggest that whatever course of action is decided upon tonight, it involve in some way the censoring of Miss Stein."
As Jocko saw Fillwater to the door, he was thinking: I wish he hadn't said that.
**
Several hours later, the Patrician was writing at his desk in his bedroom. His journal lay open at his elbow but he hadn't consulted it the whole evening. He'd intended to write a section of his political treatise (working title "The Servant") on the art of negotiation, especially in relation to trade agreements. When he put quill to paper, however, something else arose. It was a chapter titled: "Concerning the fairer sex, specifically, the incidental influence of ladies on political affairs and the counteraction thereof." He'd already laid out the positives of having a certain type of woman as helpmeet for the politician. She should have a mild personality, a modest public deportment, complete devotion to the Servant and no demands outside of the domestic sphere. It was a short section.
He'd been struggling with the next part, which began: "Seeing as the aforementioned lady does not exist or, if she does, would be as interesting as tapioca pudding, it behoves the Servant to consider what is the best of two evils: a willful lady or no lady at all." This is as far as he'd got. He'd rarely thought about the topic in an organized fashion.
Of course, he knew that any difficulties Hanna brought him were ultimately his fault. He had suggested their arrangement. Had compelled it, even. He'd calculated the risks in advance and for a time was pleased to see that Hanna was less of a liability than he thought. She was discreet, elegant, charming in public. In private too, when she wanted to be. But she was also, alas, a woman of the sort he had characterized in his treatise as "willful." This was, he realized as he ran his mind over the thought, an understatement.
There was a knock at the door.
"You sent for me?" sighed Hanna as she sat on the edge of the Patrician's bed.
Though Lord Vetinari had not seen her in weeks – she'd made herself scarce after he killed the Watch billboards – he thought it best to signal his displeasure at recent developments by not looking at her. Instead, he returned to his writing. Or at least, he made little squiggling lines on the paper with his quill.
"By midday tomorrow I would like a memo outlining any and all add-word-icing actions to be taken in future regarding the Ansbach breweries," he said as he squiggled. "No further actions will be taken by you or the brewers until I've approved them."
Hanna said nothing.
"The Watch billboards were clever, I grant you, but the flyers are unacceptable. I've had them collected. If anything like that happens again, I will be displeased."
The only sound as he paused was Hanna's breathing. He turned the page of his journal and pretended to study it, his finger marking his place.
"I've been informed that you sold your house," he said. "It appears that this campaign of yours has exceeded your financial capabilities. Do you really think it prudent to…"
It occurred to Lord Vetinari that it wasn't like Hanna to let him lecture her without getting a word in. He looked up. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her hair spread like a wheat-coloured sail over his pillow. After an intake of breath, she let out a soft snore.
Sighing, the Patrician pulled off her shoes and tucked the blanket around her. He returned to his desk, readied a fresh sheet of paper and picked up his quill.
"Is it better to be feared or loved?" he wrote. "Answer: One or the other is desirable. Problems arise when neither apply." He stared at what he'd written. Then he slipped out of the room.
**
The Brewers Guild meeting had dragged on for so long that Jocko had been forced to call out for pizza to avoid a defection of hungry members. The conference room was full of representatives from all of the breweries in the city except the Ansbachers. The mood was disgruntled. Four vats of hard lemonade had already been drunk; the guild never showed favoritism by serving the product of any of its members.
For several minutes, Jocko had been trying to regain control of the meeting. He rammed his gavel into the table and bellowed: "ORDER!"
The members finally settled.
"We have to agree on Plan A. That was…" Jocko snatched a paper out of the hand of the guild secretary, Mr. Beezle. "Point one: A trial run of a new brew suggested by Mr. Saltlik--"
"What good'll it do to brew new beer?" said a member at the back. "We can't get them foreigners on quality." Most Morporkians referred to Ansbachers as foreigners. Ansbachers returned the compliment.
"I object to that comment!" said another member. "We can brew better beer than any foreigner. Mr. Beezle, strike the last comment from the record."
"Mr. Beezle is here to record the truth," said the first member.
"Truth, not heresy!" They scuffled, and the rest of the membership erupted into loud hurrahs and calls to place bets.
Mr. Beezle put a hand over his eyes.
"ORDER!" shouted Jocko. His gavel came down on the table several times until the loud cracks annoyed the members enough to settle them again.
"This is no way for men in the beer business to behave," he scolded. He glared around the hall, then cleared his throat. "The guild'll be on hand to observe the first stages of Mr. Saltlik's new brew. No more discussion on point one. Point two: We'll appeal to the Patrician to…er…"
Everyone in the hall looked around warily. They were perfectly aware that Lord Vetinari had agents everywhere. Not all of them were human. When a rat was caught in the hall the week before, it was thoroughly interrogated by Mr. Jocko before being stunned and deposited on the doorstep of Giblet's Restaurant, where rodent was a specialty.
"We'll…er…" Jocko looked to Mr. Beezle for help. "What'd we say we'll do?"
Mr. Beezle turned a few pages back in the book that held the minutes. "Member Grabbin suggested," his voice took on a twang, "…'We should tell Vetinari to get that hussy o' his back in line. I reckon she got a hankerin' to be bent over his knee and thar's not a man here wouldn't do it if he won't.'" Mr. Beezle's voice returned to normal. "At which there were diverse here-here's."
The hall remained silent. None of them, especially Mr. Grabbin, remembered it put just like that. Maybe it was the hard lemonade.
Jocko cleared his throat. "I think the executive committee should make an appointment for tomorrow," he said. "For a diplomatic, tactful discussion with his Lordship. Mr. Grabbin, maybe Mr. Beezle should replace you, just for tomorrow."
The membership nodded. Diplomatic, tactful. Maybe the executives would get out alive.
"On to Plan B," said Jocko. "We were discussing…"
**
The Patrician sat on the edge of his bed. He was clothed in a fresh black robe identical to the one he'd worn the day before. His closet contained ten such robes, all the same except for their varying shades of black. The Patrician insisted that at all times they should hang in the order of light black to dark black, with robes of intervening tones hanging according to their proper place in the spectrum. Anyone who thought this frightening would be terrified to look in his Lordship's sock drawer.
He touched Hanna's shoulder again.
"Hanna."
"Mmph."
"Hanna."
Her eyes blinked open against their will. It was nominally morning. There was a sliver of pale light in the crack of the curtains. Lord Vetinari had worked all night and had returned to his room only to change and wake Hanna.
"I want a list of all of your add-word-icing plans by midday," he said instead of the customary good morning.
She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. The Patrician moved it back down.
"Listen carefully," he said.
Hanna's hands covered her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Are you listening?"
"Mmph."
Lord Vetinari took that for a yes. "I would like you to stop," he said. "Not the support of your family; I doubt I could convince you to do it. I mean the selling of your jewelry, artwork, furniture and so forth. I was especially alarmed to learn that you sold your house." He moved her hand aside and leaned over to speak quietly in her ear. "I would be displeased if I heard even a whisper that you were borrowing money from Chrysoprase the troll to fund this add-word-icing madness."
Hanna pulled herself up. His last words had the wake up effect of a pitcher of coffee. "I needed the money," she said. "You wouldn't help."
"I would not subsidize the breweries," said the Patrician. "That is an economic issue. You are not." He handed her an oversized piece of parchment paper.
Hanna glanced at it. Then she looked at it a little more closely. Then she rubbed her eyes, yawned, and looked at it again. It was still what it said it was. The deed to her house.
"But the buyer was--"
"--very accommodating when my agent explained last night that the sale was a mistake," said the Patrician. "We offered five percent above the closing price and after some negotiation he was happy to accept."
"I thought he'd already moved in."
"It was fortunate his servants hadn't time to unpack."
The house was in a middle class Morporkian neighbourhood and was Hanna's pride, physical proof of what she'd achieved as a seamstress. The decision to sell had been a hard one.
"I…" She shook her head and tried to give back the deed. "I can't repay you. Half the money's already gone. The debt, the--"
Lord Vetinari looked mildly surprised.
"It is not customary for the recipient to pay for a gift received."
"You can't just give me a house…"
And then she used her head. The buyer had paid her ten thousand dollars in cash, money she was spending to pay her debt and fund the Ansbach campaign. With the deed in her hand, she now had both her house and the money from the sale. She was ten thousand dollars – well, five thousand now-- in the black. Lord Vetinari could comfortably argue he was not supporting the breweries. Technically, he hadn't given them a penny. And what was it to him how Hanna spent her money?
"Oh," she said.
"Quite," said the Patrician.
Their eyes met, and it was a moment of such intense silence that the footsteps of the maids in the hallway could be heard as they began their morning rounds. The quiet in the room was finally broken by the soft sound of the Patrician's lips on Hanna's cheek.
"All I ask for in return is the memo," he said. He abruptly went to busy himself at his desk. "At noon. I want no more of that Feel like a Patrician nonsense. There are flyers enough circulating of far more import."
One of them was on his desk and had some similarities to Hanna's flyer. Its design was precisely the same and it borrowed some of the words from the beer ad: Ansbach, king, Patrician. The combination of the words was different enough that they formed an entirely new message that had no reference to beer.
"I suppose," said Hanna quietly, "that I really should thank--"
"Drumknott sent you a note the other day. Did you get it?" said the Patrician as he folded the flyer and tucked it into a pocket of his robe. "About the theater tomorrow night. A new comedy of some kind. The Guild of Actors has been begging me to attend a performance. Tiresome, really. But perhaps you will enjoy it."
"As it Was? Starring Zinneret Whitepot?"
"I believe so."
Hanna idly touched her cheek as she smiled. "I think I'll definitely enjoy it."