14. The Chase Begins
Nearly nightfall and Lord Vetinari wore gray.
What the Patrician wore on any given day rarely changed, a plain black robe of good material but rather shabby from wear. He was unimaginative about clothing and certainly indifferent; he hadn't been to a tailor in a decade.
Since he always appeared in public in black, few people knew about his gray wardrobe, the shades ranging from winter sky gray to iron to smoke, a near-black. These weren't robes but trousers and shirts and they were still in good shape compared to his robes because he rarely wore them anymore. Gray was streetwear in the Patrician's view. The shade he'd chosen was the gray of chimney ash, of the random dust that settled in the cleanest of rooms, of the dirt that pervaded the Shades.
A bundle under his arm, he walked quickly through the streets of Morpork, enjoying his anonymity. Long ago he'd discovered how useless a disguise was when all he had to do was cultivate in the public eye a consistent image – in this case, his black robe and walking stick – so that no one who passed him casually in the street recognized him as the Patrician. He was wearing gray. The Patrician wore black. He was walking without a cane. The Patrician always used one. Therefore, the tall, thin man with a black beard and piercing blue eyes who had an amazing resemblance to the Patrician couldn't possibly be the Patrician. It was logical.
And, he admitted to himself reluctantly as he crossed Sator Square, walking was easier on his knees than climbing from rooftop to rooftop. He'd done it routinely as a young Assassin, moved invisibly above the streets. The last time he tried it, he needed a cold compress on his left leg afterward. The toll of time on the body. Nearly half a century…
He stopped up short behind a stall for the selling of various smoked cheeses and peeked out. The streets still held a good number of people, last minute shoppers at the market, merchants beginning to take down their stalls, but without too much trouble he picked out of the crowd the peach-coloured scarf. He'd seen it up on Broadway, on the Maul, in the Cham. The gauzy scarf tied around the dark hair of Isabella Capelli. A merchant shoved a perfume bottle under her nose but she waved it away and continued to advance confidently on Vetinari's hiding place. His invisibility trick didn't work, his talent for blending into the background by cultivating a stillness that worked like camouflage. She seemed to expect him to do it, and instead of seeking him out in the bustling movement in the streets, she looked for points of immobility. A still shadow in a doorway or against a wall. These were so rare in Ankh-Morpork that it was an excellent strategy for spotting the Patrician even when he was at his most self-effacing.
He slipped into the street again and dodged a cart full of unsold melons that nearly blocked the entrance to a narrow alley. On the other side of the cart he coaxed the donkey until it blocked the entrance completely, then he sprinted away.
By the time he reached the Contract Bridge, she'd picked up his trail again. His weaving and feinting and ducking through the streets and alleys hadn't fazed her. Her knowledge of the city was as minute as his despite the differences in the city map she'd drawn.
He stopped outside a confectioners shop and waved for her to come. She did without hesitation.
"I would like to make a small request, if I may," he said.
Isabella nodded.
"Please go back to the Palace."
"I want to be there too, Havelock."
He pulled her out of the way of a man on horseback, the grip on her arm slightly tighter than it needed to be. He levelled a cold, displeased stare at her.
"Please do as I ask."
"You shouldn't go there by yourself. She's dangerous. She talked about killing you and--"
"For the last time, I advise you to go back to the Palace, find an interesting book, take it to your favorite room and stay there until I return."
She shook her head, her frown determined.
His grip on her arm tightened a fraction, but enough to be noticeable and distinctly uncomfortable. And then…
He changed.
His face softened. It was like the instantaneous thawing of ice.
"Perhaps you will spare the thought that I am concerned about your well being and am prepared to do whatever I can to protect you. I hope you will make my task as easy and pleasant as possible."
"Your chivalry doesn't work on me."
"I am very aware that it doesn't. I am simply being…me." He gave her hand a slight squeeze. "Will you be reasonable and go back to the Palace?"
She shook her head again.
It was clear to the Patrician that it was pointless to be irritated with her. She was twice as worried as she wanted to let on. He knew it by her eyes, which had always said everything, even back then, no matter how bland and emotionless she tried to make them. That was a skill he'd assumed she would never learn, and it appeared he'd been right.
"I'm sorry for upsetting you," he said. He smiled faintly, leaned down and kissed her in full view of anybody who happened to be walking, riding, loafing or generally passing to or from Cheapside and Brewer Street. They were ignored. A tall man in gray kissing a dark-haired woman in a peach scarf was nothing to gape at. It was Ankh-Morpork, after all. As long as the lady and gentleman's hands remained on the outer side of the other's clothing, it wasn't much of a show.
The Patrician breathed for a moment against Isabella's cheek, then offered her his arm. She stared up at him in a moment of real, speechless shock. In thirteen years of marriage and a couple years of courtship before that, he had never kissed her in public. She was dazed enough to let him lead her across the bridge to where two watchmen were doing what they do best. Watching. They looked at the Patrician and Isabella, looked at one another, then back at the Patrician.
"Er…" said the first.
"What is your name, my good man?" asked Lord Vetinari.
"Constable Stronginthearm, sir." He was a dwarf. He didn't salute, but looked slightly confused and appealed silently to his partner. This was unfortunate because his partner was Sergeant Detritus, a troll who was confused by cheese.
"Constable," said the Patrician, "do you know who I am?"
"You look familiar, sir…" Stronginthearm looked to Detritus again. The troll looked down at Vetinari.
"Dat is…uh…Dat's…" His voice wandered into a mumble.
"I am the Patrician."
Stronginthearm squinted up at Lord Vetinari. It was a long squint because the Patrician was a tall man.
"I thought the Patrician was a bit more…a bit more…" There was no way he was going to say threatening. There was the chance the man in gray before him really was the Patrician and the last thing a watchmen should do is show that he doesn't recognize the man who pays his wages.
With a great stone fingernail, Detritus scratched his helmet. "Dat's uh… Wait, don't tell me. Dat's uh…"
The Patrician sighed and unwrapped his bundle. It turned out to be a long black suit jacket. He slipped it on.
There was a shocked instant of realization from both watchmen, then they snapped to attention.
"Sah!" said Detritus, his helmet chiming as he saluted.
"Good man." The Patrician squeezed Isabella's arm. "I have a task for you. I would like you to arrest this woman."
"Havelock!"
"She's been disturbing the peace. Disgraceful, really. Kindly escort her to Pseudopolis Yard and keep her in a cell until I come for her. A nice cell, please. Do you have anything with a comfortable sofa?"
"I don't think so, sir," said Stronginthearm.
Isabella tried to twist out of Vetinari's grasp. "How could you even think--"
"Pity. An armchair of some kind would do. I would also like four guards outside her cell at all times. No visitors. Is that clear?"
"You rotten bast--"
"Is that clear, sergeant?"
There was a ching as Detritus saluted again. "Sah!"
Stronginthearm looked doubtful. "Do you need us to handcuff her, sir?"
The Patrician raised an eyebrow at Isabella. "Do you intend to resist?"
She tried to yank her arm away again but he held it easily.
"Handcuffs please, constable."
People stopped their progress over the bridge to watch. Someone getting arrested was always good for a few minutes of spontaneous entertainment. There were comments about Isabella's hair and what she was wearing. There were people who assumed she was a seamstress who made the mistake of trying to negotiate affections with Lord Vetinari. Some spectators thought it was refreshing to see the Patrician out taking a personal interest in cleaning up the unlicensed criminal element in the city. Only the more thoughtful people in the audience wondered why the woman called the Patrician by his first name when she swore at him.
Lord Vetinari released Isabella only after the handcuffs weighed down her wrists. He spoke softly into her ear.
"You may have noticed I apologized for this in advance in an excessively sweet and tender way," he said. "Please take it gracefully." He nodded at the watchmen. "Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. Carry on."
He turned on his heel and strode off.
Isabella, Detritus and Stronginthearm stared after him. The crowd began to break up.
"I'm going to kill him," said Isabella.
"Er, ma'am, I think that's a crime," said Stronginthearm. "Threatening the life of the Patrician isn't something you want to do when you already got handcuffs on."
She glared at the dwarf. "Take me to Commander Vimes."
"We were goin' der anyway," said Detritus with satisfaction. He liked it when prisoners made uncomplicated demands on him.
**
It had been dark a short time when the vampire Pefka arrived at Pseudopolis Yard. Corporal Nobbs was manning the front desk, which involved boots up on the table and a cigarette butt smouldering between his lips. At the sight of the vampire, Nobby made what he hoped was a nonchalant search of the desk for anything sharp and wooden. He found a pencil.
"Good evening, sir," said Pefka. "I have come to see Commander Vimes."
"Not here," said Nobby. "You got an appointment?"
"I am Pefka."
Nobby reluctantly righted his chair and pretended to look through some sheets of paper on the desktop. Pefka leaned forward a little. Nobby leaned back, his pencil at the ready.
"'ere, no sniffin' on me!"
"Pardon. There is an interesting scent here. I thought perhaps it was your cigarette."
Pefka knew it wasn't the cigarette but it sounded like a plausible explanation.
"I didn't nick this from nobody," said Nobby, the cigarette bobbing in his mouth. "An' I don't got a Pefka scheduled."
"Then perhaps I could…" he turned his head a little, breathing slowly, "wait in the cells?"
"You want to be arrested?"
"Oh, no. Just to visit the cells. If I may."
Nobby looked doubtful. He wished there was someone else around to shove the work of decision making onto. But it was the quiet during the supper hour and he was alone. Pefka leaned over the desk again and Nobby leaned back.
"No threatening a watchman," he said. "I got a pencil, you know." He brandished it in what he hoped was a threatening fashion.
Pefka pointed with a long finger toward a doorway to the left. "The way is over there, sir?" Before Nobby responded, Pefka strode to the door and pulled it open.
Pseudopolis Yard hadn't been built as a jail, so it was difficult now that it was Watch headquarters to get the real dank squalor of the old city jails to fit into the thickly carpeted, wall papered, curtained environment. The house had belonged to the Ramkins and Sybil had made a gift of it to the Watch. When the watchmen had moved in, they found even the cellars had been kept scrubbed and neat, and in many places had good ventilation and the occasional oil painting to brighten things up. They left everything largely where it was and built six small cells. None of them were very frightening. There were several petty criminals and vagrants who committed crimes just to get thrown in the cellar of the Yard. It was nicer than home.
Pefka nodded politely to Bald Lou, who shrank against the wall, his hand rubbing his full, thick head of hair, as it always did. Lou was the jailer and he believed the hair on his head to be a toupee glued on by his ex-wife. He insisted he felt like a bald man.
Pefka strolled past the graffiti-covered holding cell and its handful of occupants playing dice on the floor, and followed his nose straight to a cell whose door was blocked because there were four watchmen squatting on the floor in front of it. They all had cards in their hands.
"Fifteen," said one.
"Nah, that was never."
"He had a triple. Fives, w'nit?
Another of the watchmen threw his cards on the ground. "It was fifteen. Deal again."
"Pardon, gentlemen."
Irritated, the watchmen glared up at Pefka. Then they slowly set down their cards and stood up, subconsciously pressing together shoulder to shoulder. After much shuffling and mumbling, one of the guards said, "What you doin' here? The cells ain't for the public."
"I hoped I could visit the occupant of this cell, constable."
"You family?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Wouldn't matter if you was. We got orders not to let anybody in."
"But surely, constable…"
"Nobody." The leader looked sideways at his fellows, who nodded with reluctance. They weren't armed. Watchmen were hardly ever armed.
Pefka gave them all a closed-mouthed smile. "We can manage somehow to co-operate, gentlemen." Slowly, he showed his teeth.
Meanwhile, Nobby had been five minutes in his relaxed, boots-on-the-desk position when Vimes rushed in. The commander was always rushing in or rushing out, but he was never going too fast or mumbling to himself too much to notice who was at the desk.
"Boots down, Nobby," he said. "Any news?" It hadn't been dark long but Vimes was waiting for the report of another murder.
Nobby shrugged. "Well, the lads brought in a lady said the Patrician wanted her arrested."
Vimes frowned. "What lady?"
Nobby poked around his papers. "Isabella Capelli. She was a little teed off, if you know what I mean. Called him 'that double-crossing bastard of a husband,' which I thought was strange because I dint know the Patrician had a…"
"You put her in the cells?"
Nobby held up his hands. "It wasn't my idea! Stronginthearm and Detritus said that's what the Patrician wanted."
Vimes snatched the intake paper from the desk and glanced at it. "Disturbing the peace. Threatening the life of the Patrician." He slammed it back down and took off for the cells. "Send Stronginthearm down now."
"He's already down there, sir."
Vimes found four watchmen, including the dwarf Stronginthearm, lined up opposite one of the cells, staring at the closed door in complete silence.
"What the bloody hell is going on, Stronginthearm?"
The dwarf gestured toward the door. "He's in there, sir."
"She, man. Where's she?"
"She's in there too."
Vimes looked from one face to the next. The watchmen were clamped up, pale, slightly sweaty. Vimes lowered his voice.
"What do you mean the Patrician wanted her arrested?"
Stronginthearm told what happened on the Contract Bridge.
"She hadn't done anything?"
"Not that we saw, sir."
"What about this threatening the life of the Patrician business?"
"That was after he left. She said she was gonna kill him."
If the Patrician suddenly got the urge to arrest him, Vimes knew he'd say the same thing. But nobody meant it when they said it. Announcing it wasn't that smart to begin with. The people who took that kind of thing seriously were either dead or permanent guests at the Palace.
Vimes pushed open the door without knocking.
Pefka was down on his knees in front of Isabella, who sat on the plank bed by the wall, her hands folded in her lap. She was shaking her head.
When he didn't know what to say, Vimes relied on the old policeman's standby. He stomped inside. "What's all this, then?" he demanded.
Pefka and Isabella stood up abruptly.
"Please let me out," she said. "It's an injustice to keep me here."
"First things first." Vimes turned to Pefka. "What are you doing here?"
"Speaking with Miss Capelli."
"You were on your knees. You usually speak to ladies on your knees?"
"Usually they ask first."
"There's no time left, commander. Please let me out!"
"No time for what?"
Isabella opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap. Vimes shook his head.
"This won't do. I want to know what's happening. Why did the Patrician have you arrested?"
"He was being," she gritted her teeth, "difficult."
"Nothing unusual there. You disturbed the peace?"
"His peace."
Pefka was gazing at Isabella.
"I must ask you, Madam," he said. "I must. It is…" His voice trailed off. He was looking at her in much the same way Klieg had. "It is a delicacy. It must be! Madam, please allow me just one tiny sip…"
Vimes' eyes narrowed. "Sip of what?"
"Please," said Pefka. He tried to step toward her but Vimes got between.
"What has got into you?"
"You are an orchestra," said Pefka. Isabella was frowning.
"Why?"
Vimes had the sensation of being present at a conversation that was not following any known script.
"Your scent, Madam. It is…" Pefka took a deep breath. "Like a vast forest of evergreens in winter."
"What does that have to do with my--"
"You have the scent of a thousand lives," said Pefka. "And the tang will carry over in the taste of your blood."
Vimes put a protective arm out in front of Isabella. "I told you -- None of that when you're working for me," he growled.
"I never take without paying," said Pefka, "And Madam, believe me, I will pay anything. I will find her and bring you her head. I will bring her alive, whatever you ask as long as my reward is just one glass."
Vimes pointed to the door. "Get out before I throw you out on your filthy, blood-sucking ar--"
"Commander, wait." Isabella's troubled expression hadn't passed, but she looked like she had some small cause for hope. "You can track her, Mr. Pefka? Right now?"
"Yes, Madam. Now. Immediately. Tell me where to begin."
"Track her?" Vimes demanded, the conversation finally crystallising through his anger. "The vampire? The murderer?" Isabella and Pefka were ignoring him, looking at one another in some silent world of understanding. He turned on Isabella. "What do you know about her?"
Isabella said nothing. Vimes turned to Pefka.
"You saw her, didn't you?"
Pefka shook his head.
"Smelled her then. You tracked her. To where?"
The vampire didn't answer.
"You tracked her to…the Palace. She was at the Palace, wasn't she?" Vimes whipped back around to Isabella. "Does the Patrician know that? What am I talking about? The Patrician knows everything. He damn well knows where she is, doesn't he?" Isabella didn't respond but Vimes was on a role. "That's where he was going, wasn't it? He didn't want you to follow."
On a good day, Vimes could get away with being only mildly irritated at the world. But half the time he found something to be generally angry about, and right now, it was a case of full-blown fury. The Patrician knows was running through his head. The Patrician knows.
He grasped Pefka's arm. "Can you track Vetinari?"
"I've never been in his presence, sir. I don't have his scent."
Vimes glared at him for a moment, then snapped his fingers.
"Stronginthearm!" he yelled.
The dwarf stuck his head in.
"Get Sergeant Angua and tell her to meet us at the Contract Bridge."
"Promise me," said Pefka to Isabella.
"If you help us catch her," she said. She grabbed her scarf and tied it around her neck.
