With one exception, each of the six men standing before the Patrician in the Oblong Office looked like they'd been shaped out of flour barrels and draped with white muslin. On their aprons was a small symbol, a vat with a spigot, sign of the Guild of Brewers. The exception wore a plain brown suit and an air of intellectuality. Mr. Beezle stood behind guild president Jocko, who'd been speaking for some time now and had succeeded in puffing out his cheeks with indignation.
"It is a disgrace, your Lordship, a disgrace!" Jocko cried. The other guild members grumbled and nodded their approval. Mr. Beezle looked at his fingernails. "Those foreigners have outright stole our customers," said Jocko. "Stole them in broad daylight."
"Foreigners!" repeated the men.
The Patrician leaned back in his chair. "If I remember my regional history, the Ansbachers have been in the area for two thousand years."
"They's still foreign," said another of the brewers. "They talks funny."
"We are a multicultural city, gentlemen. All of us sound funny to someone. I dare say…perhaps even I sound a bit strange to you."
The men looked at one another.
"Oh, no sir," said Jocko.
"No?" said the Patrician brightly.
Jocko shook his head. After he glared at the others, they shook their heads too. Mr. Beezle observed as if he wasn't part of the proceedings.
"We should be certain about this," said the Patrician. "I would like this issue of funny sounding foreigners out of the way so we can discuss more pressing points."
The brewers stood silent. The Patrician smiled at each of them in turn. Finally, he folded his hands.
"Good. And so I take it that what you gentlemen referred to a moment ago as stealing can also be called the fruits of the add-word-icing methods of the Ansbachers."
"A disgrace, your Lordship," said Jocko. "They're undercutting our prices."
That was a serious charge in guild-controlled economies. The guild set the minimum (but in Ankh-Morpork, never the maximum) price for goods or services produced by guild members. Any member who undercharged his guild could be expelled or worse.
"I believe I heard the Ansbachers were charging volume rates," said the Patrician. "Only very large quantity sales result in a per barrel price lower than the guild charges."
"Not true! They been givin away beer," said one of the brewers. "Just givin it away. We can't sell cheaper than free."
"And they have an unfair advantage," said Jocko.
"Whatever could that be?" asked the Patrician.
The room went silent.
Mr. Beezle sighed.
"The Stein family…" he prompted.
The others looked shocked. The Patrician looked merely interested. Mr. Beezle stared at Jocko until the guild president realized that it was up to him to continue what Mr. Beezle had started.
"Well, the Stein family….er….it has a brewery and…" He looked at his fellows. They were on the look out for any interesting things that might be found on the floor of the Oblong Office. Mr. Beezle was the only one still obviously paying attention. He nodded with encouragement at Jocko, who felt a bit heartened. "Our customers are changing over because Miss Stein is your…er…"
"Hmm?" said the Patrician.
Jocko's face went red. "…your…er…"
Mr. Beezle whispered in Jocko's ear. Jocko looked relieved. "Friend, your Lordship."
Once again, the Patrician did his stare, the kind that gave close and personal attention to each and every man in the room.
"It is true that Miss Stein is, as you delightfully call it, my friend," he said. "If she is using this to unfairly influence guild business, I shall certainly speak with her. If that is your wish."
The brewers deflated with relief. The Patrician smiled at them in a friendly fashion.
"And I trust, there will be no more talk of expelling the Ansbachers from the guild until I've had a chance to sort this out, hmm?"
The guild members nodded while at the same time wondering how the Patrician had already learned of a closed-door discussion made eight hours before. They thought it was record time, though it wasn't.
"We'll hold off on all that, your Lordship," said Jocko. "But not forever. Our businesses are suffering." He gave Lord Vetinari a suffering businessman look.
"Well, then, gentlemen. Don't let me detain you." The Patrician began scanning the paper in front of him. The brewers bowed and backed out of the Oblong Office. Outside, they rubbed the sweat off their faces with the hems of their aprons.
The paper was written in Hanna's rather sloppy script. By the time he was half way through, the Patrician was smiling.
***
The Disc Theater had arranged places of honour for the Patrician and Hanna front and center in two chairs that looked suspiciously like props from a play that had contained a king and queen. Both of them sat uneasily in chairs that resembled thrones but there wasn't any more room in the benches.
Candles were extinguished and the play began.
It was a comedy involving the standard mistaken identities, farcical love stories and evil plotters. It was obviously funny; during the first half an hour, the crowd rarely stopped laughing. Hanna glanced over at the Patrician. His elbow was on the arm of his throne, his hand hiding his smile.
She leaned over and whispered, "That part where Whitepot tripped over the Duchess was brilliant."
"Hmm?"
"That part."
"Pardon. I didn't notice."
Later, she glanced at him again.
Lord Vetinari wasn't smiling at the play at all. A prop table in the corner of Scene 2: A Tavern in the first act contained a prominently displayed bottle of Ansbach Beer. The shelves behind the bartender were full of Ansbachs. The shape of the bottles was unmistakable. Act One, Scene 3: The Bedroom of the Duchess contained an Ansbach, for no discernible reason, on her dressing table. Act Two opened in The Servants' Quarters, where Ansbachs were set up in a row on the side board as if ready to serve. This had not been in Hanna's memo.
The curtain finally fell for intermission and comedian Zinneret Whitepot stepped out onto the stage. He smiled expansively as he waved for the crowd to remain seated.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly thank you for your applause. In a few moments we will continue our play. But first, a serious word." Whitepot repositioned the tail of his powdered wig, then stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. "After a long monologue, an actor develops a powerful thirst."
Hanna heard a very slight noise from the Patrician. She didn't turn her head.
"What does a thespian reach for, you may ask?" continued Whitepot. "The answer, dear Audience, is simple." An extra walked onto the stage, mugged at the audience, and handed Whitepot an open bottle. "I reach for an Ansbach Beer. So cool, so pure, like the snows of Cori Celesti itself." Whitepot took a long drink from the bottle, his face a model of ecstasy. "Aaaaaaaah!" he said. "So if you're looking for a taste experience, during intermission, get yourself an Ansbach and…" He held up the bottle, label forward, and eyed the crowd, "…Taste the Goodness."
The Patrician and Hanna remained in their seats as many in the audience stood to stretch or fetch a drink or answer the call of nature. It was some time before Hanna had the confidence to look at Lord Vetinari. He frowned, a single, slim finger over his lips. On closer inspection, the frown was having a hard time staying in place.
"Zinneret and I are old friends," said Hanna.
Whitepot finished speaking to one of the audience members who'd corralled him on the stage. He waved at Hanna. She waved back. He winked. She--
"Come, then," said the Patrician, taking Hanna's arm. The people clustered at the lobby bar fell silent and parted like a well-dressed river. The Patrician rapped the counter with his knuckles.
"Two Ansbachs please, my good man," he said though the bartender was obviously a woman. It didn't matter; this was theater. He leaned over to Hanna and said in a stage whisper, "I've always wondered what goodness tastes like."
The crowd watched as they clinked glasses and drank.
"Hmm," said the Patrician. He clicked his tongue like a wine connoisseur at a tasting. "I detect a trace of evil among the goodness. Gives it a bit of a spice, really. Quite pleasant." He took another drink. "I will have some snows imported from Cori Celesti as comparison. I believe there should be truth in add-word-icing." He looked at Hanna over the edge of his glass.
Later, the Patrician's carriage rattled over the unevenly paved streets. He stayed silent for some time.
"You're not angry, are you?" said Hanna.
After some thought, he said, "Whyever should I be? I was simply wondering what other surprises you have in store. Things you neglected to write in the memo."
"I thought you'd find it funny." Hanna smiled. "You did. Admit it."
The carriage passed over one of Ankh-Morpork's more well-developed pot holes. Hanna and the Patrician were air born for a moment, and landed again on the seat.
"There is something else that's not in the memo," said Hanna.
"Ah."
"It just came up this morning." She paused. "I know you'll say no."
"How nice. There is no need for you to ask."
"I was talking to Mr. Tabernathy at the mint, he's an old friend, and he mentioned how interesting it would be to cast a limited edition coin for the festival."
"A coin," said the Patrician.
"An Ankh-Morpork dollar. But instead of you on the front, there'd be a--"
"--bottle of something intoxicating if consumed in quantity."
Hanna looked mildly offended. "Ansbach is quality beer. The lager is six percent alcohol per bottle," she said. "You'd have to drink a case of that Winkles garbage just to get a—"
"Yes, yes." Lord Vetinari looked at Hanna with amusement. "And on the reverse side of the coin?"
"Mr. Tabernathy thinks Cori Celesti would look nice."
"Hmm. And what do the gods have to say about using their home in your add-word-icing?"
"I spoke to Ridcully this afternoon. He said on behalf of Blind Io that the gods are delighted."
"Your donation to the temple must have been generous."
"I have a generous nature."
Lord Vetinari hefted his ebony walking stick and unhooked the trapdoor in the roof that communicated with the carriage driver. "Please make a circuit of the city, Mr. Parsons," he said. When the trapdoor closed, he relaxed in the seat.
"How many coins?" he said.
"We were talking about only a hundred. They should be collector's items."
"If you can cover the cost, I do not see a problem. Of course, they can't be legal tender."
Hanna opened her mouth but the irritated tap of the Patrician's stick on the floor of the carriage silenced her. "You have more incidental power in this city than you should," he said. "That is something else we need to discuss. Your influence does not extend to the minting of money."
"It's only a hundred dollars."
"It is a disturbing precedent. Next time you will ask for a thousand." The Patrician frowned. "Commemorative beer glasses of some kind would be more appropriate."
Hanna twisted in her seat to see his face better as she talked. "If people could spend the coins, it would be like mobile add-word-icing that never ended."
"Within a month the coins would be too grubby to see the design."
"That's a month of publicity, then."
"No legal tender."
"It's a small thing."
"No."
She put a hand on his knee.
"Your lordship."
He removed her hand.
"Please, your lordship."
He frowned.
"Havelock…"
He knew that tone. It was low and smooth as rum and the last time he'd heard it, the only time, on Hogswatchnight, things hadn't gone well for him. Or they had, depending on how you looked at it.
He slid back until he leaned against the carriage door and with a long finger traced an imaginary line down the middle of the seat.
"I am in no mood for games, Hanna. Neither you nor those nimble little hands of yours will cross this line."
She scooted over a few inches and pointed. "This line here?" She moved a bit closer and pointed at the seat again. "Or this one?"
"I will not be convinced."
"It's only a little favour."
"The more I give you, the more you want."
She smiled slowly. "The more you give me, the more I want."
By her tone of voice and the look on her face, it was not clear that the Patrician and Hanna were still talking about the same thing. She was, Vetinari reflected -- and not for the first time -- excellent at her job. He crossed his legs uncomfortably and meditated on the silver knob of his walking stick as it gleamed in the light from the street lanterns.
"I am sure you realize that there is talk in the Guild of Brewers of expelling the Ansbach members," he said.
When he glanced at Hanna, he was relieved to see the impish look had drained from her face.
"I suggest this campaign of yours end before there are permanent consequences," he said.
"I knew Jocko would complain to you." Hanna shrugged. "The festival will be the end. Hopefully they won't expel us before then."
Lord Vetinari noticed, as he always did, that Hanna used "us" when referring to Ansbachers. It irritated him. He was a patriot in that Ankh-Morpork and the integrity of its borders was of utmost importance. The people of Ansbach had been part of the city for hundreds of years but retained the feel of a closed club. To him, Hanna was a Morporkian. Yet it appeared with her obsessive work for the brewers that she thought otherwise.
The carriage entered Ansbach in its circuit of the city. The Patrician watched the brick houses pass, the factories, the home of the Guild of Tinkers.
"Your family brewery is nearby?"
"It's coming up. On Serendipity and Schwips."
He opened the trapdoor again. "Stop at the corner of Serendipity and Schwips, please."
"You want to visit? My sister will have a heart attack."
"An unofficial stop. Brief. Ah, here we are."
Production was now around the clock, in two shifts. When Hanna and the Patrician stepped into Stein's Brewery, the employees manning the tuns, vats, boilers and sieves hardly noticed. They were making lager, and with a four week fermentation time ahead of them, the young, unfermented beer had to be cooked up in constant batches and stored in the cold room if it was to mature in time for the festival.
The Patrician leaned on his stick and watched the activity with indulgent interest. The staff slowly realized who he was and stopped working.
"Carry on," he said.
Hanna found Brewmaster Fritz leaning over a tun full of wort, the raw soupy stuff of beer in the making.
"This is the Patrician," she said. When Brewmaster Fritz bowed, his spectacles fell off his face.
"Velcome, your lordship, velcome, velcome," he said. "Velcome to Stein's. Ve are honoured to have you here." He winked at Hanna and nodded, grinning.
"Where's Lotte?" she asked.
"Guild meeting. Vould his lordship like a tour?"
"A brief one, please."
"Ansbachers only?" asked Hanna. After Brewmaster Fritz nodded, she said, "Vy vould the guild be meeting this time of night?"
The Patrician was not amused at Hanna's change of accent.
Brewmaster Fritz shrugged. "Emergency meeting. Brech called it. Come, your lordship. Let me show you our vonderful new vort…"
Hanna trailed behind but was thinking of the guild meeting. Something was cooking, that was obvious. Had the Brewers expelled them after all? She'd been sure the Patrician would get wind of it and block it somehow. She glanced at him. He was bending over the bottling machine, his stick tapping the movable arm. Did he already know?
Brewmaster Fritz led them to the cool room, and by then, Hanna was sure that the Patrician had chosen to stop in Ansbach solely because he knew something was happening with the guild. She left him with Fritz and went out to ask the workers on the floor. Only Putty had a guess.
"They want their own guild, if you ask me."
"Secession?"
Putty nodded.
"The Patrician vould never allow it."
"I think they think he will."
"If Ansbach formed its own guilds, it vould be the first step to independence from Ankh-Morpork." Hanna lowered her voice as the Patrician and Brewmaster Fritz entered the main floor again. "He vould never allow it. Anything that smacked of a break up of the city."
Putty scratched his nose. "I think they think you'll convince him, Miss Stein. You got a convincing way about you." He waggled his eyebrows. Hanna smacked him on the arm.
"Stop that, Putty. Don't say anything about this to the others."
"Righto."
The Patrician gazed around the main shop floor. "A remarkable operation," he said. The large sign arched over the brewery doors, translated out of the Ansbachers' archaic Uberwaldean dialect, read: Beer is the bread of a happy life. He smiled.
Hanna eased up to Brewmaster Fritz and whispered, "Tell Lotte to send me a note vhen she gets back. I vant to know vhat's going on."
Brewmaster Fritz nodded.
As the carriage continued back to the Palace, the Patrician sat thoughtfully, his hands resting on the knob of his stick.
"It is an interesting industry, beer brewing," he said. "The air in some parts of the brewery is quite…pleasant. Almost intoxicating, I imagine, for the workers."
His stick idly tapped the carriage floor.
Hanna watched him and tried in vain to read his mind. It never worked. She wondered why she tried. She was about to take the unusual tack of asking him outright what he knew about the guild when he turned to her and said:
"I realize, Hanna, that outside your contractual duties, you don't particularly like me. But I have cause to ask, do you trust me?"
She stared. The Patrician was calm, studying her face, waiting.
"Why do you ask?" she said finally.
"For the same reason most people ask questions. I want to know the answer."
"You don't know it already?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. "So willful," he said, almost to himself.
When he opened them, she was still only sitting there, looking at him, trying, he could see, to understand what he wanted.
"Would it help if I said that I trust you?" he said.
"Why should you?"
"You are a professional under contract to me."
"I can't say the same about you."
The Patrician surprised Hanna by taking her hand. "For the general good, this is an issue that must be resolved," he said. "Very soon."