16. On the Battlements

            When the cab stopped to allow carts to cross the street Isabella suddenly grasped the Patrician's collar and pulled it down. The pale skin beneath was unbroken. She took his hands and pushed his sleeves up above the wrist and saw against each the tip of a slim, polished wooden stake strapped to each of his forearms. The stakes were clean.

            Vetinari leaned back and closed his eyes. His face slowly changed, the rock hard calmness slipping away like water, replaced by a look of immense fatigue.

            "What happ--" Again, Isabella was cut off by one finger held to his lips.

            They sat in silence all the way back to the Palace.

            Inside, the Patrician took Isabella's arm and steered her without explanation to the Oblong Office. He left her there for a moment, then returned and locked the door. He checked the windows behind the curtains, then sat at his desk.

             "Please have a seat," he said.

            Isabella settled down, expecting to hear what happened with Klieg. Instead, the Patrician unlocked a drawer, the one for classified files, selected a file and started reading. She hesitated to disturb him. The tension he'd radiated at the clacks tower had returned.

            After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. The Patrician opened it himself. A row of servants marched into the room. The first carried a large basket, the next a basin and covered pitcher, a towel over her shoulder, the next a pile of blankets and pillows and the next had Isabella's gowns over her arm. Behind, two burly servants hefted a long, dark green couch, the first backing in, his boots scuffing the carpet, the second quietly directing where they were going. The women servants set their things aside and together moved the Patrician's small conference table out of the way. The couch was set in its place against a wall. The servants left without bowing or showing any other sign that the Patrician and Isabella were in the room. He locked the door behind them.

            Isabella went to the table where the servants had set the basket, her clothes and the basin. Inside the basket were the little things she needed at night, a hair brush, tooth brush, the books she'd kept on her night stand, some ribbons, a pot of hand lotion. And her iconograph.

            "I apologize for the accommodations," said the Patrician, "but it is necessary."

            "This is ridiculous. Tell me what's happening."

            He strode back to his desk but Isabella caught him by the arm before he could sit. "You're barricading me in here and you won't tell me why."

            He stared fixedly at her hand until she removed it.

            "You must trust me," he said.

            "I don't trust anyone who gets me arrested in public. Do you know how humiliating that was?" She held up her hands. "Handcuffs, Havelock! I was treated like a criminal and put in a cell at your order and you want me to trust you?"

            "If you don't wish to be protected," he waved at the door, "you are welcome to leave."

            "Don't play with me," she snapped. "As usual, your protection is worse than the threat."

            He narrowed his gaze at her. "Don't forget, Madam, that you are not my wife. What happened does not concern you." He sat down at his desk. "Stay or go as you wish but if you stay, I advise you to make it a quiet evening. I'm not in a compassionate mood."

            "What are you going to do?"

            The Patrician held up his file. "Read. And wait. Perhaps you should do the same."

***     

            Scree Lane was one of those narrow little alleys in the Shades where squalor would have been an improvement. There were only five doorsteps on either side but Pefka's nose was working full throttle without Isabella around. He led Vimes to the right place, a grate at street level.

            The undead and other alternative species watchmen converged on the spot, carrying torches, weapons, whistles and clacks paddles in case the back up needed back up. Vimes dispatched a few to cover any back escape routes. Detritus was posted at the sturdy plank cellar door.

            When everyone was in position, Vimes cupped his hands at the grate and said, "Hello down there, occupant of the cellar at," he glanced up at the house numbers, "Number 3 Scree Lane. This is the City Watch. You've got ten seconds to open up. If you don't open up, our Sergeant Detritus will do it for you. Whoops, as of now you've now got seven seconds. What's your choice?"

            Tense and watchful, the watchmen counted in their heads.

            Seven.

            "It has been duly noted that the occupant of the cellar at house number 3 didn't have the good sense to open up," Vimes said into the grate. "The city will not be financially responsible for any damage done to property at house number 3. Understand? Right!"

            He nodded at Detritus.

            The troll put his fist through the door, reached through the ragged hole he'd made, and found the bolt was already undone. That kind of thing usually embarrassed Vimes but he ignored it. Pefka went first into the cellar.

**

            Isabella had tried to read but ended up staring at the candles on the Patrician's conference table. The only sound in the room was the whisper of rustling paper when Lord Vetinari turned over a page in his file. The flames were steady, untouched by random drafts, but still, they mesmerized her. Thoughts scattered and came together in her mind. Snippets of verse, memories, old and recent conversations.

            One string of words played and replayed in her thoughts.

            Don't forget, Madam, that you are not my wife, he'd said. What happened does not concern you.

            The words were…telling. At least, that's what some corner of her mind seemed to be signalling. If she's not the Patrician's wife, what happened with Klieg does not concern her. So logically, one could perhaps deduce that if she was the Patrician's wife, what happened with Klieg would concern her.

            What kinds of things could have happened that would concern the Patrician's wife? She couldn't begin to think of any possibilities that would sit well.

            Lord Vetinari folded his hands on the desk and gazed at her. Just looked, with no discernible emotion on his face. Then Isabella heard him get up and cross the room and sit at the table beside her.

            "I apologize for being short with you," he said. "It was impolite and unnecessary."

            Isabella's gaze stayed on the candles.

            "Having you arrested was also impolite but it was necessary. Lavinia has an unhealthy interest in you."

            "Yet none of this concerns me."

            They said nothing for a few minutes. When she glanced at the Patrician, Isabella saw that he had her iconograph open on the table and was staring at the handwriting on the back.

            "Why the name Octavia?" he asked.

            "She was born on the eighth day of the eighth month."

            He nodded. "The others are more sentimental. Your father's name."

            "And your mother's."

            He turned the iconograph over and looked again at the faces. Isabella had an arm around Octavia's shoulder and stared straight out of the picture with an accusing look in her eyes.

            "You don't look particularly happy."

            "I was furious."

            She'd told him why. One fifth of the family too busy for a family portrait.

            "I'm sure it was very urgent business."

            "I don't want to hear it." She had an edge to her voice. It seemed an old irritation, this topic. He let it pass.

            "Octavia looks very serious," he said. 

            "She's the only 8-year-old on the Disc who voluntarily sits still for her tutor. She learned that from you." Isabella rested an elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. "I'll never forget what you told me after she was born. You came back from showing her off to everyone around the Palace and you said…" She cleared her throat and took on a rather good if higher pitched imitation of Vetinari's voice, "…'You've produced an impressively quick-witted baby, Isa. I explained some things about Ankh-Morpork and she asked far fewer questions than you do.' I wanted to know what she did ask. You said: 'She made a kitten-like mewing sound that I took to be a query of the state of the city treasury. I told her she's far too young to be that depressed.'"

            It was fast but Isabella saw it. A very faint, very fleeting smile from the Patrician, no more than a slight softening of his features. It didn't last.

            "I never said those things," he said. "Don't forget that."

            "The twins are little demons. People tell us Antonia is just like her namesake, naturally upbeat and active. She climbs everything, bookcases, the coach, table tops, your desk, anything. And Marco, he always has to be center stage. I'm afraid if we aren't careful, he'll grow up to be an actor."

            "My word."

            "Terrifying, isn't it?"

            The Patrician closed the iconograph and passed it to Isabella.

            "Interesting…stories."

            She could practically see it on his face, the dismissal of everything she'd said. In his mind, he waved it all away as meaningless. A fairy tale that didn't concern him.

            "That's definitely me and those are our children," she said. "They are. It's not just a dream in my head…"

            "You seem to think the iconograph confirms your memories," said the Patrician. "Perhaps your memories have conformed to the iconograph. Perhaps it is as enchanted as the wizards have found your gown to be."

            He went back to his desk and found something random to read, though he wasn't really interested in it. After a few minutes, he glanced at Isabella over the paper and saw her bent, pressing her scarf over her eyes. The comment about the iconograph was too much, he knew. It was always dangerous to shake someone's convictions so abruptly. He set down his reading, his shame nearly overruling him, nearly driving him to correct what he realized was unnecessary callousness. But he didn't move from his chair.

            Later, Isabella stretched out on the sofa and pulled a blanket around her. The books the servants had brought her didn't interest her. As an alternative to dwelling on the iconograph, she tried to think of what Vetinari had said earlier about Klieg.

            Don't forget, Madam, that you are not my wife. What happened does not concern you.

            What would concern Lord Vetinari's wife? What was her chief concern in the memories, the dream, the reality she carried inside her?

            They had names: Octavia, Antonia and Marco.

**

            Pefka didn't have to open the coffin.

            "She isn't here, commander."

            "What do you mean she isn't here?"

            "Sir!"

            Angua was kneeling under the wooden table in front of a dark, dank and  foul-smelling hole in the wall. There was obviously a direct path from the hole to the river. Pefka sniffed.

            "Twenty minutes behind her."

            Angua was impressed. "You can smell her through that?"

            "More important, can you see in that?" said Vimes. "That's concentrated Ankh air. A match will light it like a torch."

            "Follow me." Pefka pulled himself rather fastidiously into the hole.

            Vimes ordered some men to stay behind, took a deep breath and followed into the darkness. 

**

            The knock at the door was soft but it was enough to wake Isabella out of her doze. Throwing off the blanket, she was at the door and had it open before the Patrician moved from his desk. The clerk Drumknott was about to say something but Isabella snatched the paper out of his hand and slammed the door in his face. She scanned it.

            Vetinari decided to wait.

            She took up a quill and pot of ink, and settled at the conference table to work. The code was fiendishly difficult, one of Leonard's, but Isabella was familiar with it. She'd never been able to decode without writing everything down systematically. She wrote on the back of the clacks message, flipping the paper back and forth, smudging the ink. There was a point, ten minutes later, when the message was clear despite some of the words remaining in code.

            The Patrician watched her from his desk. Watched her set the quill down slowly as if it would shatter. Watched her face change. Shock transforming to dread and then…anger. Her mouth opened, as if she had to breath through it to get enough air. And then she fetched a candle and walked quickly out of the office.

            He glanced at both sides of the sheet. Diplomatic code was added to his mental list of things Isabella shouldn't know. And, of course, the contents of the message belonged on the list as well. Taking the paper and a box of matches, he went to the hearth.       

**

            The rancid, ancient sewer tunnel from the cellar on Scree Lane curved around under the streets, the air so putrid by the end that even Vimes, lifelong Morporkian, could barely stand it. Pefka finally led the Watch up a short flight of steps and out into the night. They were on the extreme turnwise end of Rime Street.

            "You got her?" Vimes said between gulps of relatively fresh air.

            Pefka nodded. "We've closed the gap but we must go faster now."

            They raced off again.

**

            After Isabella left the Oblong Office she started sprinting. A hand shielding the candle flame, she ran through the hallways and up the stairs to the room with the secret passage to the Rimward Tower. She rushed to the sideboard. It was clean, empty. She opened drawer after drawer and pawed through the contents, then dumped them on the floor. Dropping to her knees, she searched through the cutlery and napkin rings and found nothing. She stayed on the floor, groping underneath the sideboard, grasping in the darkness in panic. She wiped her eyes and crawled to the sofa, feeling underneath, finding nothing. There was nothing on the little table, nothing on the shelves, nothing between the sofa cushions. By the time she'd searched everywhere she could think of, traitorous thoughts paraded through her mind. Maybe it had never been there. All of it false, all of it…

            And it wasn't on her hand. There wasn't even a faint pallor around her fourth finger, any sign that she'd ever worn it.

            She scrambled to the entrance to the secret passage and sprinted along the dark corridors beyond. When she reached the Rimward Tower her face was dry, the panic subdued by the physical work of the stairways. She breathed hard and looked out over the city.

            "Lavinia," she gasped.

            The night was very still, without wind. The low-grade roar of street noise could be heard, even from that height.

            "Lavinia," she said again.

            She wished there was wind. It would carry her scent.

            "Lavinia!" she shouted. The name shot thinly through the air and fell, without echoes.

            Isabella turned in frustration and there was Klieg. Leaning against the battlements.

            "I am so happy you vere looking for me," she said, smiling.

            It had been impossible for Isabella to hide that she was startled, but she smoothed it over.

            "Tell me what you said to the Patrician."

            Klieg's smile grew. "Oh, ve said many zings. Vetinari vas not happy vhen he left. He does not deserve happiness."

            "Why not?"

            There was a non-committal shrug from Klieg, then she separated herself from the wall. Isabella stood her ground.

            "Did you talk about family life?" she asked.

            "He said you are not his vife."

            "He's wrong."

            Klieg's smile disappeared. "He did not lie. He has no vife. I asked ozers."

            "They're all wrong."

            "Oh, my dear, you have zis idea in your mind but vhy? He is not vorzy." She took Isabella's hand in both of hers.

            "Maybe not, but it's true. I know it is." As Isabella said it, she realized how damning that was. Insisting on something too hard is a sign of self-delusion. An attempt to make something true through repetition and conviction.

            "How old are you, Lavinia?" she asked.

            Klieg released Isabella and struck a pose in the moonlight. "How old do I look?"

            "Not a day over two hundred."

            "Zat is not very flattering." Klieg wagged a finger.

            Isabella hooked her arm in Klieg's and walked her to the edge of the tower.

            "What will happen when you kiss me?"

            "Depends on ze kind of kiss."

            "A…bite."

            "Ah." Klieg smiled again. "Zat also depends. If I merely taste you and zen stop ze bleeding, you vill become as I am."

            "Do you recommend it? Vampirism?"

            There was another non-committal shrug. "Ach, ya, it is interesting. At times. It can also be immensely boring." She nodded thoughtfully. "Immortality is not for everyvone."

            "Do you think I would enjoy it?"

            "No. Your heart is too vonderfully soft."

            "Would the Patrician enjoy it?"

            Klieg frowned, her eyes narrowed. "Probably. Ve shall see, hm?"

            Without warning, Klieg kissed Isabella on the mouth, then pulled back, her tongue running over her lips. "You taste of beaujolais."

            "Did you really kill all those people?"

            "Oh, yes."

            "The Patrician has the right to punish you."

            "He vill not. He did not vhen he had ze chance."         

            "Why not?"

            Isabella wanted to hear it from Klieg herself. The clacks message had been from Festus, who reported, "The issue of vampires and pregnancy is a touchy subject, one that yields much misinformation. It is, indeed, possible for a female vampire to bear a child, though it is frowned upon by nearly all in the community, particularly when the partner is non-human. If there is even a rumour of a past pregnancy on the part of Lady M., I have yet to discover it…" and Isabella had stopped reading because that was all she needed to know. 

            "Why won't he punish you?" she asked Klieg.

            The vampire kissed her again, fighting her resistance. With her foot, Isabella could feel that they were right on the edge of the tower platform. A step backward and they would be over.

            Behind them, there was the sound of a throat being politely cleared. "Pardon me for interrupting." The Patrician stood at the center wall, his hands behind his back.

            Klieg huffed in frustration.

            "It is not your turn, Vetinari."

            "Havelock, go away."

            He raised an eyebrow.

            "Go," she repeated.

            "You see?" Klieg was smiling.

            "I'm afraid I can't allow such shenanigans in my Palace." Lord Vetinari looked around at the tower. "Or on it, in this case."

            Klieg looked questioningly at Isabella. "Vhat does zat mean? Shenani…?"

            "You don't need to protect me, Havelock. Go back inside."

            She knew he wasn't going to do it. He wouldn't leave. It would be an impolite thing to do, leaving her with an infatuated, murderous vampire. He wouldn't even do it if it was in the best interest of Ankh-Morpork. She assumed he knew what she intended to do. And had come to stop it.

            Klieg advanced on the Patrician. "Listen to your vife-not-vife, Vetinari. Go back inside. I vill come for you later."

            He smiled pleasantly. "Come for me now."