** Yes, Bobbi just came out that way, a bit sad and lonely but still elegant about it. Anna – yes, there are plot bunnies. I've actually been waiting for somebody to say – hey, Hanna and Aunti Bobbi appear to have some interesting similarities. Hm... And byrdgirl -- no you don't have to wait long. We're entering the end phase, here! Many thanks to all my readers! **
X.
Lord Downey's carriage stopped up short at the gates of the Palace. On the inside. He was having trouble these days getting out.
He stuck his head out the window.
"What is it now?"
His clerk Lercaro, on the seat above next to the driver, glanced over the assorted characters crowding around outside the gates and tried to decide where to begin. One of the characters did it for him.
"Tuppence for a cuppa tea, gov'ner?" asked a slimy little man in a drab overcoat.
He was pushed aside by a smaller man in an even drabber overcoat. "Eightpence for a Meal, mate? Just eightpence. I ain't gonna drink it away. I swears by me old mother."
There was more shoving. The crowd had the makings of a mob, and an unusually egalitarian one at that. The men who were obviously members of the Beggars Guild practised their profession next to trolls still not pacified by Downey's assurances of their loyalty. A motley group of creatures from the Society for Equal Treatment of Species carried protest signs. Mothers held up babies shrieking, as far as Downey could make out, for milk. Enraged dairymen in white aprons moved nervous-looking cows up to the gates. There were merchants and children and concerned middle-class parents and representatives of yoghurt, cream and cheese manufacturers. C.M.O.T. Dibbler circulated in the crowd attempting to sell them sausages. Except for the beggars and Society members, the mob shouted in unison:
DOWN WITH THE MILK TAX!
The beggars twitched or muttered or shouted or wandered around calling people Jimmy. They'd been at it day and night outside the Palace for so long that Downey had sent an urgent message to Queen Molly, head of the oldest and richest guild in the city, asking her politely why a good number of her membership had formed a drooling, dribbling ring around the Palace grounds.
She'd responded that the Beggars Guild was showing its support for the Downey regime.
Downey had authorized a certain amount of money to be forwarded to the guild in hopes it would make the support less public. It was a form of anti-invitation, one of the ways the guild made its money. It was paid to not have beggars show up at special occasions at respectable households.
Queen Molly sent a thank you note. The beggars didn't budge.
Sam Vimes was paying them not to.
**
"It is obvious, gentlemen, that the Assassins Guild in Ankh-Morpork is not in a position to represent our interests directly."
Townsend was burning through his cigarettes like a brush fire. He was speaking to the assembled Assassins – both shifts -- at 4 a.m. in the dining room of the guest house. A passable fish with scalloped potatoes had been consumed and the gentlemen had moved on to cigars, aperitif and coffee.
The past week, he'd spent his evenings on the beach with Hanna – only talking, of course, since the other night shift Assassins were watching, damn it -- and he'd been thinking over something she'd mentioned to him after one of her swims. The conversation was at first about guilds in general. Then Hanna mentioned the Seamstress Guild had decided to excuse her from paying dues for the duration of her stay on the island, seeing as she was not practising inside the Ankh-Morpork city limits and, by extension, was not benefiting from her guild membership. Seminars, additional training, the Hogswatch dinner, that sort of thing.
It seemed sensible to Townsend. He did some mental calculations and discovered that the Assassins were still paying guild dues out of their weekly salaries. It didn't sit well after Downey denied them the standard of living adjustment and ordered men working under unbearable conditions to do yet more house searches. There was no guild rep on the island to appeal to.
Hanna had mentioned something else. One seamstress was an independent contractor. Two was a guild. If there had been another seamstress on the island with her, she'd probably form some kind of Seamstress Guild Local that would force the guild in Ankh-Morpork to hear her grievances about the island.
A Local.
It had stuck in Townsend's mind as he went about the business of making sure Vetinari was up to no mischief. If the Assassins formed a Local, it would have a united voice of appeal to the mother guild in Ankh-Morpork. United we stand, divided we fall.
"I hereby propose," he said, "to form the Assassins Guild, Khavian Local 18."
"What's the eighteen for?"
"There are eighteen original members," said Townsend, addressing one of the day shift Assassins.
"Do you really think Lord Downey will approve of this?" asked Kinsey.
"That is the very point, Mr. Kinsey. If we act together as a unit of the Guild, we can more effectively prevail upon Lord Downey to give in to our demands."
"What are our demands?" asked a night shift Assassin.
Townsend tipped the ash off his cigarette. "Among other things, a standard of living adjustment for all members of the Local, guild fees adjusted to reflect the lack of benefits on the island, an agreement to--"
"Before we draw up demands, shouldn't we elect officers?"
There were mutterings of agreement. Townsend smiled broadly across the table.
"Naturally, gentlemen, as the originator of the idea I assumed that I would head the Local."
"I didn't vote for you."
"Mr. Kinsey for president!"
"I don't want to be president," said Kinsey, his arms folded.
"He doesn't want to be president," said Townsend. "Gentlemen, please…"
A day shift Assassin pointed at Townsend.
"You're night shift. How do we at the day shift know you'll represent our interests too?"
"Of course I will." Townsend held out his hands. "All members are equal."
"Ha! We heard what you tried with Miss Stein. You're a twisty, windy fellow, aren't you?"
"There should be a vote!" cried a day shift man with an amber pin in his black tie, rather flashy for an Assassin.
One of the night shift men tossed back his brandy. "Townsend said he'd represent all of us, so calm down please you…ah, yes, by the smell, I remember you're the son of that paper manufacturer. Be a good chap and leave these things to your social betters."
There was sudden silence in the dining room. The sound of half a dozen knives being slipped out of hiding places in dark clothing of day shift Assassins was not heard. Neither was the removal of another half dozen blades in the hands of night shift Assassins.
Kinsey didn't know what side he should be on. He side stepped over to Townsend.
"What if we make the president a rotating office, monthly, say, day shift then night shift and so on?"
The Assassins all turned their eyes to Townsend while managing to still look with quiet menace at the rest of the men in the opposite shift.
Lord Vetinari was smiling. No one was around to see it because the Assassins were experiencing the joys of organized labour, leaving him completely unguarded. He strolled away from the guest house dining room window where he'd spent the last instructive hour in eavesdropping, and went up to the villa.
It was a bit like the old days at the Palace. He would walk around sometimes nights when every other living soul was asleep and drink in the silence like a crisp, cold glass of water. Nothing stirred in the villa, no sound except for the settling of the house, the ticking of a clock. It was his first night round at the villa with the knowledge that he was not being watched. He was completely alone and it suited him.
He'd had encouraging reports of Ankh-Morpork from the pigeon post, a system that had been helped along by the embarrassed decency of the day shift Assassins. They followed Vetinari on his solitary walks, but not too closely. Nobody wanted to see the former Patrician, a man brung as low as he'd ever been in his life, turning sorrowful eyes to the horizon, dreaming maybe of what he once was. He usually disappeared into a rocky, cave-like nook on the coast. Now and then, the Assassins heard what they assumed were noises of…sadness… echoing out of the rocks. Vetinari approved of the sensitive nature of the Assassins, and was willing to play act a bit, moaning and sobbing and so forth, to keep them too embarrassed to enter the sheltered rock that Alice and Reginald had been trained to regard as home. Pen, ink and paper, as well as bird food, were stored in the makeshift pigeon post command center.
He climbed the stairs to the villa's second floor and soundlessly made his way down the corridor. He assumed the last little stroke prepared with the help of his aunt would end things favourably in Ankh-Morpork. One or two things in her note had been rather puzzling – her tender inquiries about Hanna's, not her nephew's, health -- but it was nothing he needed to mull over at the moment.
He paused outside the last door in the hall. A pity that he wouldn't be staying much longer. The villa, the island in general, had grown on him. The quiet lifestyle was invigorating. He felt refreshed enough to rule Ankh-Morpork another fifteen years. He intended to thank Downey appropriately for the much-needed rest.
The door was unlocked. Light from a three-quarter moon cast the furniture into hazy shapes and made the white gauze curtains on the bed glow. Lord Vetinari sat on the edge of the mattress. A hand drifted out of the sheets and pillows and settled on his leg.
"Are the boys having fun?" asked Hanna sleepily.
"As much as can be expected. I'm looking forward to their attempts at drafting by-laws."
She sat up. "They're all at the guest house? We don't have any guards?"
"None. The servants are sleeping. It is safe to say how pleased I've been with your performance. If I wasn't familiar with your other professional skills, I would think you were in the wrong guild." He clapped his hands softly. "Bra-vo."
"You're not so bad yourself. Townsend told me about your moaning and groaning in the caves. I wish I could have heard you doing that."
"I believe you have under different circumstances."
Hanna laughed into her hand, but Vetinari looked like he'd just announced a budget deficit. Normally, he was not a man to vocalize anything he hadn't thought over in a calm and rational manner beforehand. But under Hanna's influence, he'd found it necessary to spread the word in Ankh-Morpork that any further attempts to create or refine a machine that records sound would be strongly discouraged by the Palace.
She held up her wrist. "I'm still not happy about this bruise," she said. "I've been battered around enough since all of this started."
"Think of it as a dramatic aid. You would not have managed tears without help."
He patted her hand absently.
"Now for the next act. Perhaps a reconciliation scene. It should be a touching moment for the audience. We could stage it," he pursed his lips, "in the rose bower…"
Lord Vetinari had banned street entertainment in Ankh-Morpork, mimes being his particular target. He'd always advertised a dislike for theater in general, though under certain circumstances, he quite liked it. Watching a show was not nearly as interesting as directing one. He was delighted when Downey handed him the island as a colourful backdrop, the Assassins as his audience and the inherent drama of the broken contract with Hanna. It wasn't the real contract, of course, which wasn't stored in Ankh-Morpork at all, but a version Drumknott had misfiled in a superficial way because its surfacing would perhaps come in handy in future.
Yes, Vetinari's time on the island had turned out to be far more entertaining than he'd expected.
"That should do," he said when he'd finished his stage direction for the reconciliation act. "You will follow my lead."
"Don't I always?"
He didn't mention that she usually needed some convincing. Instead, he nodded, then kissed her. She pulled away.
"Maybe you've forgotten; we don't have a contract anymore, Havelock." She shook her finger at him. "Nil volupti, sine lucre."
"You mentioned something about lowering your rates."
"Which you forbade me to do."
He shrugged and got up to go.
"All right," she said, smiling. "How much do you have on you?"
He looked blank for a moment, then reached into his pocket.
"It appears to be one Morporkian dollar."
"Sorry. Not enough."
"No? Hm." He reached into his pocket again. "Two dollars?"
Hanna shook her head. Lord Vetinari excavated every pocket in his robe. There was the sound of coins clinking in his hand. He didn't need to look at them to count them.
"The grand total appears to be 9 dollars and 43 p."
"Pathetic. Embarrassing. I'll take it."
He dumped the coins onto the night stand. "This is a sordid business," he sighed. He began on the buttons of his collar. Hanna climbed out of bed to help him. She didn't bother to wrap the sheet around her.
"Just like politics," she said.
For once, Vetinari had his hands on her without tapping out a secret message. He kissed the bruise on her wrist and said, "What did you think I was talking about?"
**
The excuse was that the sovereignty of the Seamstress Guild had been violated. Mrs. Palm, president of the guild, had been removed from the City Council before it voted on the last day of Vetinari's trial. To get things stirred up, the rumour also went around that Hanna had been sent into exile against her will and without charges or a trial. Downey's cancellation of her contract with Vetinari was another injustice from the perspective of the Guild.
They were flimsy excuses for a full-scale action. But the negotiations between the Seamstresses and Vetinari via the pigeon post had yielded an agreement on certain financial matters once he returned to power. In the meantime, the action was to be bankrolled by Madam Meserole. There could be no better war chest. Mrs. Palm went for it.
The recent activity outside of the palace gates had usually begun at a civil hour, the dairymen and merchants and trolls gathering for another long day of protest after having a hearty breakfast.
The seamstresses, so they say, never sleep. Sunrise was around fiveish; the ways in and out of the palace grounds were blocked with seamstresses by the time the city clocks were done striking the hour.
They seemed to come in one load, all at once, though that was impossible. Thousands of women couldn't just materialize out of the night, placards, posters and flags in their hands. Yet somehow, they managed to go from nothing to a mob so quickly that the palace guards barely had time to inform the Patrician before the group doubled in size again.
A woman climbed on top of an overturned crate at the palace gates and spoke into a rolled up newspaper. She'd been chosen for her booming voice.
"The Ladies of Negotiable Affection of the Seamstress Guild, along with the Lusty Girls of No Vocation, do hereby declare a general strike. No affections will be traded in Ankh-Morpork until the honour of the guild is re-established!"
There was cheering from the women. There were distressed stares from the palace guards. Chants started up. One two three four, freedom for your local whore! Five six seven eight, rumpy pump will have to wait!
By the time Downey was in his dressing gown looking down at the crowd, it had doubled in size again. Lercaro was at his elbow.
"Well, well," said Downey. "Another day of chaos in Ankh-Morpork." He frowned at the women gathered below. "Is this a coincidence, Lercaro?"
"Probably not, sir."
"Probably not."
Downey rubbed his eyes but the head ache didn't go away. It couldn't be the three… No, four… Five, was it? Drinks he had last night. It was fatigue. It was impatience. Things weren't calming down fast enough. It was clear why there continued to be such flares of chaos in the city.
Well, then. If Vetinari wanted to play the game to the end, Downey was more than willing. Kinsey and Townsend had reported his reaction to the cancellation of his contract with Hanna. Afraid to lose his last bit of power? Well, everyone had to confront their fears some time.
"I want to see Rosemary Palm first thing," said Downey. "And send a clacks to Townsend. I want Miss Stein shipped out now."