**Hey scribbla – missed you! Welcome to the madness, Ouatic7. Always glad to hear that my OC appeals to non-OC readers. Anna – have you emailed me before? Got several things from people with versions of the name anna and am trying to figure out if any are you. Again, thanks to all of my reviewers and lurking readers! The best is yet to come! (*smiley-smiley*)**
IX.
Lord Vetinari had a habit of entering a room silently. Somehow he managed to open and close doors with squeaky hinges without a sound, to cross floors of marble, tile and wood without betraying himself.
To keep sane during the contract, Hanna kept a secret list of things she couldn't stand about him. He'd seen it of course, and added to it when he noticed she was forgetting to update. Silent movement was in the top five. Updating her list for her was in the top ten.
So he silently entered her bedroom before breakfast and saw her at the open balcony doors, a mirror in her hand angled to the light. She was picking meticulously through her hair, right at the crown, and by the look on her face, wasn't happy about what she found. Kinsey and two other Assassins were observing from trees within earshot of the balcony.
Vetinari watched for a good five minutes before she caught his reflection in the mirror.
"I hate it when you do that," she said. "It's bad enough being watched by everyone else."
"On the beach you seem quite happy to be watched."
She went back to looking for grays in her hair.
"Watching is free. Touching costs."
"Ah, yes. I've heard complaints about your exorbitant rates."
"I've decided to lower them."
With the exception of Kinsey, the Assassins perked up.
Vetinari smiled. "That may not be quite a wise idea. It would hardly do for you to come down from the exalted fiscal position I've raised you to."
"I'm tired of sleeping alone and I'm losing money the longer I do." Hanna frowned at herself in the mirror. "The gentlemen should be hungry enough by now. They'll pay the new rates without protest. They'll be high, not exorbitant."
Vetinari's smile winked out like a spent candle.
"Surely it would be good to discuss this idea of yours to cheapen yourself, Hanna." It was his warning tone, level one. Gentle, soft and laced with a hint of displeasure.
"There's nothing to discuss, sir. This is guild business."
"The guild is not here."
"I'm not changing my mind."
"What will you be offering, may I ask? Ten Morporkian dollars for a tryst behind the house?" Warning tone level two, not quite as soft, the displeasure obvious.
Hanna smirked. "I'm worth a lot more than that and you know it."
"How easy you find it to be common once again." Level three, the warning tone that had a vague similarity to the grumbling of a wolf. It had silenced many a Council member in the good old days, when he was still Patrician, his power challenged, yes, constantly challenged, but he'd controlled it, kept it in his hands…
He suddenly snatched the mirror from Hanna and took her wrist tightly. The Assassins leaned out of the trees for a better look.
"I didn't groom you for a higher duty for 18 months to have you slip back into your old habits," he hissed.
"I'm not interested in duty. I won't be a slave to it just because you are." She tried to free her wrist but he took her other arm and held it even tighter. He fixed her with a glare that had made people wish the Oblong Office had a privy.
"You will not lower your rates."
"You can't order me around anymore. I'm not your seamstress and you're not the Patrician." She matched his glare. "Let go of me."
He was gripping her right wrist, the hand she'd hurt when she'd punched the wall outside the Oblong Office. Her fingers curled into a fist. The bruises were gone but the hand was weak and with Vetinari's grip…
There were tears in her eyes.
"Let go of me or I'll scream for help," she said quietly. "One of them will help me. Let go."
Kinsey, who'd been watching everything with concern, landed lightly on the balcony.
"This is not your affair, Mr. Kinsey," Vetinari said.
"I think you're hurting her, sir."
"Am I? Is that an accurate statement of who is hurting whom, Hanna?"
She gritted her teeth.
The other two Assassins slid onto the balcony, their hands ready to unpack the blades they might feel compelled to use in non-lethal but painful ways if the situation escalated.
Everyone froze. The silence lasted a full minute.
Then Vetinari slowly released Hanna. She rubbed her wrist.
"Get out of my room. Sir."
**
The Society for the Equal Treatment of Species had existed before Downey took power, but now it had a more focused raison d'etre. Spurred on by the trolls and the hairy man with the yellow eyes, the Society launched a massive city-wide campaign to recruit members from all walks of non-human life. This hadn't been easy in the past, since werewolves, vampires, boogeymen and other creatures were not the joining types. Dwarves normally stuck to dwarf-centered associations. The Undead had their own groups too.
But now the Society bloomed. The membership doubled based largely on the foot work done by former watchmen who knew the city gossips, the people who'd get the word out.
The Patrician Lord Downey is a speciesist! Protect yourself! United we stand, divided we fall!
In certain neighborhoods, usually ones where few non-humans lived, the Society organized marches with big banners and a healthy amount of shouting and singing. People started getting nervous. Nervous people complained to the Patrician.
The Society drowned the Palace with pamphlets, recommendations, lists of demands. At the top: Affirm the rights of non-human species. The Society had always been vague on how this could be done and it wasn't any more detailed now. It made Downey's work harder. He was finding it impossible to satisfy them.
Getting the Thieves to do something about the Breaking and Entering wasn't going anywhere either. Mr. Boggis, president of the Guild, billowed his cheeks in protest every time Downey brought it up.
"A guild member who breaks and enters has the sense to at least steal something," he told Downey. "It is highly offensive that you would think guild men and women capable of forgetting the crux of their own profession!"
Assassins were being chucked off the Ramkin-Vimes property as fast as Downey could assign them, and there were grumblings among them about his failure to name a replacement to head the Guild. When the officers brought up the issue, Downey made it clear that he was not prepared to support a new Assassins Guild president. If Vetinari could be Provost and Patrician at the same time, Downey could manage more.
The legal process against the Stein family breweries was dragging too. It was also having an irritating side effect: Beer prices were rising as the Steins tried to offset the legal costs and pub owners cashed in on the chance that Winkles Brewery, the largest in the city, would be shut down by the Palace. Ankh-Morpork's beer drinkers were not pleased.
The low-level chaos permeating the city was getting on Downey's nerves. He was having trouble sleeping at night. He was finding it necessary to work when he really wanted to be having tea or escorting a socialite to the theater.
The clerk Lercaro appeared in the Oblong Office with a stack of papers.
Downey glared up at him. "I haven't finished reading what you brought me this morning."
"I'm sorry, sir. These are all routine reports from those clerks of Lord Vetinari that weren't dismissed. They're accustomed to detail."
"They lose the forest for the trees." Downey eyed the stacks on his desk. "Just pick out the few most important ones for me." He brightened. "Anything about our Exile?"
Lercaro handed over two sheets of paper.
Each was read quickly. Downey was learning the necessity of skimming papers. If he read every word of everything put in front of him, he'd never dig himself out from under the unbearable mountain of information that crossed his desk every day.
"What do they think I am, a money tree?" he cried. "Write Townsend and Kinsey that they're to make do with what they have. If Miss Stein gets bored enough she'll lower her damned rates."
Downey hadn't admitted it to anyone, but he was annoyed she'd decided to stay on the island. He hadn't been a perfect gentleman when she visited him after the trial, he regretted his behavior now, but he'd once been her top client. Or rather, he'd deigned to allow her to visit him on a regular basis. He could see the upside to re-establishing the connection for the sole purpose of sending Vetinari periodic and very graphic commentary on how her skills had slipped under Dogbotherer's care.
But she'd decided to stay on Khavos. It raised his suspicions.
"Tell them to double the number of house searches. Vetinari's up to something. Sorrowful walks. Pah!" Downey snatched up a random paper from his desk. "And for gods' sake, send another statement out to the trolls. They're valued citizens etcetra. I want them cleared off the Palace grounds."
Lercaro slipped out of the office.
Downey counted to ten, then sauntered surreptitiously up to the drinks cabinet.
**
The surf roared over the volcanic rocks, brightened by the starry sky and a half moon high on the horizon. Hanna sat on the sand, her knees gathered under her chin, and watched the black waters roll out. And back. Out. And back. She was shivering. She'd just finished her nightly swim.
A large towel was settled around her shoulders. Townsend sat down beside her.
"Cigarette?"
"No, thanks."
He was about to light it, then had second thoughts. He tucked it in his jacket pocket.
The episode between Vetinari and Hanna was common knowledge among the Assassins. There'd been speculation on what drove him to act the way he had. It was uncharacteristic of that iceberg of a man to show his temper that way. A physical altercation. It was almost unheard of.
After much discussion, the Assassins formed a consensus. They deduced that he didn't want to lose the last thing he had power over. An understandable reaction for a man who'd ruled Ankh-Morpork for fifteen years. It was Kinsey who'd thought up this explanation. He was a sensitive type, and the other men considered him the best for coming up with deep psychological insights.
Hanna hadn't lowered her rates after all, and it was clear to the Assassins why. She had a bruise on her wrist.
"Look," Townsend began, "the fellows, they asked me to come out and tell you that we're sorry we couldn't help you with…" He waved a hand toward the villa. "We have orders. We're not allowed to rough him up. It's either inhume or nothing."
"I don't want him roughed up. Or inhumed." She sighed.
"You should be able to lower your rates if you want."
"I know! If I had the guild here, if I had someone to represent me, maybe I could get justice, but," she shrugged, "there isn't any local Seamstress Guild. I don't really have any rights on this island, do you understand?"
Townsend nodded. The Assassins had been feeling the same way since they got the message from Downey that all requests for additional compensation were so much hogwash.
"You could go back to Ankh-Morpork."
"I could." Hanna pulled the towel closer around her and blinked at Townsend. "Do you think I should?"
"Kinsey and I sent a report to Lord Downey about what Vetinari did to you. Maybe he'll help you if you go back."
"Why would he help me? I'm just a seamstress. It doesn't look like he's been doing much for you and you're Assassins."
The day and night shifts had been feeling this way too. Downey ordering more house searches but denying them more pay. They refused to do the extra work and had badgered Kinsey into keeping quiet about it. They didn't have to badger Townsend. He was all for less work for the same money.
Hanna sighed again. "Things are more complicated than they seem, Mr. Townsend. What Lord Vetinari did, that's not really him. In private, he's always gentle and considerate and…"
Townsend half listened to Hanna talk while slowly inching his way close enough to put a supportive and understanding arm around her shoulders without it seeming too obvious. He nodded every now and then. He made little encouraging noises.
"…so I think I have this problem, like maybe you've heard about hostages who end up feeling close to their kidnappers. He didn't kidnap me, but the contract wasn't my choice and I don't want to go back to Ankh-Morpork without him because I--"
Townsend wasn't listening anymore. He was resolving a conflict going on in his head. He was fifteen years younger than Vetinari, more fit, more handsome, especially now that his tanned face contrasted so nicely with his pale hair and eyes. And he was ambitious. He wasn't on the island for a holiday or for money. He was getting noticed by Downey.
Who at the moment wasn't there. Who didn't seem to be listening to the grievances of the Assassins. Hanna wasn't Downey's and she wasn't Vetinari's. Surely after two middle aged men, a man her age would be a welcome change.
In the middle of her explanation of why it was so hard to live with a man like Lord Vetinari, Townsend kissed her.
"Here!" The voice out of the darkness made the word sound like "Heeeyah!" An Assassin materialized. He stomped across the sand and glared down at Townsend.
"Don't think you're getting around us that way, Townsend."
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"
Other Assassins were coming out of the shadows along the rocks and among the trees. None of them looked happy.
"You think you're so clever," one said. "Can't pay her fees so you'll see what you can get for free, eh?"
"That is an unfounded accusation! I was merely comforting Miss Stein in her—"
"Comforting? You weren't handing her a tea and a hot water bottle, were you?" The Assassin made kissy-kissy noises.
Hanna got to her feet. "I'm tired. Thanks for listening, Mr. Townsend. Goodnight, lads." She started up to the house.
Townsend was left standing on the beach with a half dozen members of the night shift.
"I would like to make it perfectly clear," he said as he watched Hanna reach the villa, "that each and every one of you is a complete and utter bastard."
**
Reginald the pigeon hadn't flown to Ankh-Morpork at all.
Normally, homing pigeons knew to fly back to a certain area known as home. It was trained into their internal Disc positioning systems by repetition. But Reginald was smarter than most pigeons. He couldn't read but he had a passive Morporkian vocabulary approaching 200 words. One of them was turnwise. Another was Pseudopolis.
He knew that he was to fly turnwise of Ankh-Morpork to the city of Pseudopolis and a certain house in a street that would smell of narcissus. Food would be set out on the target windowsill.
He was eating it when the window opened carefully and an elegant lady well past her prime but determined to fight it wrinkled her nose before reaching out and untying the message on his leg.
Unlike Sam Vimes, Madam Roberta Meserole didn't need pencil and paper to decode the message. She knew the code. She'd taught it to her dear nephew Havelock decades ago. It took her a few moments to read it.
She strolled back into her study, a tasteful room of green brocade, wrote a short note and gave it to a servant to take to the bank. Outside, Reginald's head was tucked into a wing. Madam gazed out the window toward the sea.
"Such a long journey for a small bird," she said.
Reginald cooed softly.
Madam sighed and turned back to the study, though she was seeing, really, the entire house. Twelve rooms. Empty, even with the furniture and books and servants and the cat. She had spent a lifetime in various business pursuits the family only spoke of vaguely. Only in the past few years, as the pain in the joints of her curling fingers grew worse and her own image in the mirror gave her a start, did it bother her that she had nothing to show for her work but empty rooms.
Such sentiment was new to her, a melancholy that champagne only temporarily fought. She spoke of it to no one except the cat. Friends she didn't have; acquaintances she didn't care to complain to. She had never been one for self pity.
She sighed again, settled back behind her desk and picked up her quill. The pain in her hands was pushed aside. She wrote carefully because it was code and it was for her nephew.
She wouldn't tell him all the reasons why she wanted him back home in the Winter Palace of Ankh-Morpork. She wouldn't tell him why it was crucial that Hanna Stein – or anyone, really – be with him. She wouldn't tell him what the next twenty years of his life would do to him if he lived that long; he had to learn it for himself. He was already smarter than she had been and perhaps he would continue to be. Perhaps he wouldn't find himself old in an empty house.
She didn't write any of this.
She told him only that she was doing all she could to help him.