** I wasn't going to leave you all too long at a cliffhanger! Twist: Brace yourself for this chapter, girl. You might be squealing even more. Rhiyana: I kept wanting to type 9 dollars 43 cents, a product of being an Ami in Euroland. And as Merrymoll pointed out, the really funny part about that bit (for me) was Havvie looking for spare change. Cheers to starmouse, lobster, Tindomiel, byrd and all my readers. Anna – Ja, schick mir 'n Email. Ideen sind willkommen – Ich werde eine Meserole Geschichte bald anfangen, glaube ich.**
XI.
The reconciliation scene began with an accidental meeting in the rose bower on the villa's second terrace. A strain of yellow roses bred for their late summer blooms twisted up and over a series of arches along the path. It was dusk, the usual time when the day and night shifts met, though there had been a mixing of duties since the creation of the Assassins Guild Local. There was a lot of work to do to get the organization off the ground.
Assassins of both shifts sipped mint juleps while strolling through the garden, talking quietly about by-laws and organigrams. Kinsey was in the guest house counting the ballots for president of the Local, and Townsend was monitoring to be sure they were counted correctly. It was the third vote. The other two had been protested. By Townsend. He'd lost them both.
Lord Vetinari was known for his organizational abilities and had of course volunteered to give any advice the Assassins needed. He was explaining the difference between a vertical and horizontal dues structure when they came across Hanna in the rose bower.
As far as the Assassins knew, Hanna and Vetinari hadn't spoken with one another in a week or two. The air between them was frozen solid. The Assassins instinctively turned to go down a different garden path but Vetinari remained where he was. He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly.
"This has gone on long enough, Hanna."
She flipped her fan closed but said nothing.
"I hoped that we could discuss this like mature adults."
"I'm not interested." She turned her back on him.
The Assassins were arrayed within earshot. Lord Vetinari went to them and said, "I would like to ask if you could spare us some privacy. Remain in the garden if you like, but perhaps Miss Stein will thaw if our conversation is kept between the two of us."
They could see in his face that he was appealing to them to have some understanding of the situation, step aside and allow him a moment alone with Hanna for the purpose of conversing about Certain Topics. Topics that men hated to talk about normally, often involving too many statements beginning with "I feel…" It would be the Talk.
No man confronted with the Talk could bear to have other men around to hear him descend into a morass of emotion. The Assassins understood. They were men too. Who hadn't been there? They stepped aside, out of earshot but within sight of the rose bower.
What they saw was a little dance similar to a tango, a struggle between man and woman that went something like this: Hanna kept her back to Vetinari as he talked, then turned to glare at him, and turned away again, taking one step up the path. Vetinari stepped behind her and put out a hand, which she pushed away, taking another step up the path. Vetinari took three steps to get in front of her, his hands held out in appeal. She shook her head. He folded his hands over his heart. She turned away but only half way this time. He stepped toward her again.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, the Assassins called the servants to bring some snacks. They munched on walnuts and hastily popped corn while they watched.
The dance continued with Hanna snapping her fan open again and fluttering it high over her face (it was a moment when she couldn't keep herself from grinning; she pushed it down as quickly as she could). She peeked over the edge when Vetinari said something that the Assassins guessed has surprised her. When the fan came down, she looked on the point of crying. The Assassins speculated about what Vetinari had said to get that reaction out of her. Vetinari held out his hand again, still talking quietly, and after hesitating, Hanna took it. They stepped toward each other, Hanna digging a handkerchief out of her sleeve and swiping it at her eyes, Vetinari smiling down at her.
The Assassins twittered. They talked with their mouths full.
"He's not going to do it."
"Yes, he is. Go on, sir. Look at how she's looking at you."
Hanna had her head turned, but was peering sideways at Vetinari in a coquettish way. The Assassins followed every move with intense interest.
"Come on, show her what's what."
"What?"
"You know. Show her…" The Assassin winked at his buddies, then shoved another fistful of popcorn into his mouth.
"Show her, like, his real feelings? Is that what you meant?"
"I still don't think he's going to do it."
"Shut up and watch."
Vetinari leaned closer to Hanna. They were gazing at each other, a melted butter sort of gaze, it was drippy and sticky and exactly what the Assassins wanted to see.
"That's the way."
"He's going to do it!"
"No, he isn't."
"Yes, he is. Come on, sir. You can do it! We're right behind you!"
"No, we're not. We're--"
"Shut up and watch."
The dance ended with Vetinari bending over Hanna in a tango-like dip. There was another long, smouldering look. Then…he kissed her.
It was one for the clickers.
**
Townsend, who won the third vote for president of the Assassins Guild Local by using targeted bribery, received the clacks from Downey the next day. He took it into the library where Vetinari and Hanna were sorting through books she planned to read. Hanna had asked the Assassins to join her in a book circle for literary discussions.
After he announced that the Patrician Lord Downey wanted Hanna shipped out, Townsend watched Vetinari to read his reaction. It was a while coming. Vetinari looked at Hanna for a long time. She was too shocked to say anything.
"Hm," he said finally. "I can not imagine why Dr. Downey has changed his mind about allowing you to remain. You haven't been doing any mischief behind my back, have you?" He tossed a narrow glance at Townsend, and got to his feet. "It has been a joy, but alas, orders are orders. Will you need help packing?"
"Your lordship!"
"The Patrician's orders should always be obeyed." He smile quickly. "You surely know that."
"I have no choice? No choice at all?"
Hanna appealed to Townsend, and the look on her face was genuine. She wasn't acting anymore.
"Lord Downey wasn't making a suggestion, Miss Stein."
"Oh no. Patricians never make suggestions. There's never a choice, is there?" She started pacing around the library.
Lord Vetinari watched her stomp back and forth between the reading table and the writing desk.
"Perhaps," he said, "you and I could have a word alone, Mr. Townsend."
Hanna whipped around.
"You don't understand, sir. I can't go back. Listen to me, he said he'd--"
Vetinari held up a hand. "If you could excuse us, Hanna. We will sort this out."
She stared at him. He was infernally calm and had a little smile on his face, a know-it-all, hyper confident smugness that she hated. She trusted him by now, but only so far. A part of her still assumed he'd sacrifice her for his own ends if he saw the need to do it.
"Fine," she snapped. "Do excuse me, gentlemen." She swept out of the library and slammed the door behind her.
In the garden she tried to burn away her anger by sprinting up the steps, clear to the top of the highest terrace, where the lily pool was. Dragonflies buzzed over the blooms and in and out of the reeds. The blossoms on the tree at the edge of a vine-covered half wall wilted a little in the August heat. Hanna sat on the stone bench. Shade helped a little. The breeze. The quiet. It wasn't much, it didn't calm her completely. She was still annoyed that Vetinari had pushed her out of the discussions about her own fate after everything she'd done for him.
And of course, she was scared.
No doubts were in her mind about what would happen if she returned to Ankh-Morpork without Vetinari and with Downey still in power. She would get a special invitation to the Palace delivered by a couple of grim men in black who would not be so easy to charm as Townsend and the others. There would be questions. Interrogations. It wasn't possible that Downey would leave her alone. He would push her until she told him exactly what had been happening on the island. There was only so much she could withstand. Her chest ached, ghost pain from the wounds Downey had made. They were long gone, but not forgotten.
She hadn't told Lord Vetinari the details about what happened after the trial but he'd seen the bruises; he surely guessed…
It was two months ago now, but the memory was fresh. She'd showed up at the Palace as soon as she'd heard about Vetinari's punishment. Lord Downey greeted her like an old friend, all smiles and dripping politeness, and poured her wine and settled into a sofa in one of the palace sitting rooms. He sighed contentedly.
"Well, that's that," he said. "We can't call it official until he's really gone, but we can safely say things are moving in that direction." He looked at the glass in his hand. "Wine. Pah! We should have champagne!" He went to the drinks cabinet and started poking around among the bottles.
He poured two champagnes and presented one to Hanna with a flourish.
"To freedom, my dear," he said, raising his glass.
She gave him a cosmetic smile, clinked glasses and drank.
"So," he said, "with Dogbotherer out of the way, you don't have to continue that sham of a contract. Terrible of him to coerce you into that sort of thing. It must have been a walk through Hades for you. But joyfully, those days are over. You can void the thing and no one will force you to pay the penalties."
He drained his glass. "I won't be asking you for a contract myself because unlike our soon-to-be Exile, I respect your desire to maintain your freedom. We can return to the happy days before all of that unpleasantness. I'm planning to throw a party as soon as possible, a bit of a house warming. The Palace needs a good airing out." He chuckled. "I'd be delighted if you would accompany me. Not only for symbolic reasons; I genuinely enjoyed our--"
"I'd like to go to Khavos too, your lordship."
Downey had a surprisingly pleasant laugh. He refilled their glasses and laughed and stopped only to take a drink.
"That sense of humour of yours," he said. "A delight…"
"I'm serious, sir. I came to ask your permission to go with Lord Vetinari."
"Don't take that unpleasantness about the breweries and your house so seriously. You'll get your house back after the Council settles down. It's being quite vindictive about Vetinari's extortion. I can barely rein them in." He shrugged. "And your family will be compensated in some way for the breweries, I'll see to that."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir. I still want to go."
The mirth dropped from Downey's face. He set his glass aside. "He doesn't want you there. If he did, he would have said."
"I don't care what he wants."
Downey got up and paced to the window, then circled around again, his arms folded. "This is all very interesting. You want to go to him and he doesn't want you. What am I to think of that?"
He paused. "It begs a separate question. Maybe you have the answer. It's been bothering me for a while." He sat again, his hands wrapped around one knee. "A month ago, Vetinari showed up at the Guild and gave up a few privileges he enjoyed as Provost of Assassins. It puzzled me why he did it."
"I have no idea. He doesn't tell me much."
"Maybe it will help when I tell you what he wanted in exchange. He requested your Guild contract be set at," Downey raised his eyebrows, "a very surprising amount. He never mentioned it to you?"
Hanna shook her head. All she knew was that Lord Vetinari had negotiated with the Assassins Guild at the beginning of their agreement to make the cost of inhuming her a bit more frustrating for any would be enemies. As far as she knew, it was at 25 thousand dollars, a very respectable amount, especially for a seamstress.
"How much is it?" she asked.
"You really don't know? Puzzling." Downey's frown deepened. "It now costs 150 thousand dollars to inhume you, Miss Stein. A prohibitive amount. The list of people worth more is quite short and includes only nobles or the extremely wealthy. I couldn't help but speculate why he requested it. The figure can't reflect your value to him, seeing as you're only a seamstress, so I had to come to another conclusion. A rather disturbing one."
Hanna was suddenly aware of Downey's hands. They were resting on his wrists in a nonchalant way, but only if you didn't know that Assassins loved to wear daggers just inside their sleeves. She tried not to look obvious when she slid on the sofa cushion away from him.
"It seems to me," he said, "that this extraordinary level of protection for you was meant to be some kind of reward. I'd been wondering all along what sort of information he'd been getting out of you, and it seems to me, it must have been valuable indeed."
"All client information is confidential, sir," said Hanna. "Always. I've never said a word about you or anyone else. Not a word."
"Really? Never? Well." Downey wandered over to the fireplace. "It seems to me that maybe you told him some things you shouldn't have and you'd rather go into exile before any of us find out the truth."
Hanna was on her feet and behind the sofa. "I never told him anything, sir. I swear."
"I'd believe you if it wasn't Vetinari we're talking about." Downey selected an iron poker from the stand next to the fireplace. "Everybody tells him everything. It's very irritating." He set his empty champagne glass on the floor and held the poker in front of it like a croquet mallet. He sighted the door. "The upside about all this is, as much as your inhumation would cost, I have enough money for it, and – this is the truly marvellous part – as an Assassin myself, I can execute the contract as well. It's like having my cake and eating it too." The edge of the poker tapped the champagne glass. "That's not meant to be a threat, Miss Stein. Just keep it in the back of your mind as we negotiate your future."
The poker impacted with the glass. Shards jumped in the air and shattered into smaller splinters against the door.
For Hanna, the evening got worse from there. She'd punched the wall outside the Oblong Office afterwards because punching Downey was not an option. She wasn't that tired of her life.
In the villa garden, she opened her eyes. The dragonflies glided over the murky water of the pond, dipping between the reeds. The sun started setting. She watched the pool and waited until a demonstrative series of footfalls announced the arrival of Vetinari on the terrace.
"We have reached a compromise," he announced. He sat on the bench beside her. "Mr. Townsend has been kind enough to give us time for a proper goodbye."
"What do you mean?"
"He will delay executing the order for another two weeks. He has also agreed to end all surveillance. He apparently needs the time to consolidate his power as head of the Assassins Guild Local."
"Why would he agree to all that? Did you threaten him?"
Vetinari leaned back against the wall. "I have no power to threaten here, my lamb. I have only influence. As you have. You've used it beautifully. Mr. Townsend was ready to listen to my suggestions once I outlined to him what you're likely to encounter once you return to the city. He was quite touchingly concerned with your well-being." He closed his eyes and smiled faintly.
"What will Downey do to him when he doesn't send me back right away?"
"Ah, that is the advantage of long distance communication. It is quite possible for messages to be delayed. Bad weather at sea, problems with the clacks… So many things can go wrong."
"It's still a risk." Hanna studied Vetinari's face. He looked pleased with himself. "What did you promise him?"
"In case you are wondering, I did not promise him you. I confess that viewing you as a commodity has become distasteful to me."
"The guild trades affections, Havelock, not people. I'm not a slave; I'm not yours to give away."
"That is not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "Mr. Townsend and I reached a different agreement. For the second time in months, we are not being watched. Refreshing, isn't it?"
The sky had darkened and the stars already shimmered overhead. It was so quiet they could hear the whisper of the tide on the beach. They walked together to the edge of the terrace and looked down over the expanse of gardens. It felt like standing at the top of an amphitheater. The panorama of sand and sea spread out in the distance.
"It is beautiful here," he said. "Perfect retirement property."
"You'll never retire. Drumknott will find you slumped over some papers in the Oblong Office and they'll bury you with a quill in your hand."
He put his arm around Hanna's waist. She waited for him to tap a message on her hip with his fingers but he didn't. He just held her.
"There comes a time," he said, "when our powers fail us whether we like it or not. In some situations, it may be advisable to end the performance before that happens."
She glanced up at him. He had a faraway look on his face.
"Why?" she asked.
"Hm?"
"Why end the performance early?"
"It is a question of whether one walks off the stage or is carried off."
"Being carried isn't always bad. It depends on who's arms you're in."
Hanna leaned against Vetinari's chest. She assumed correctly that he was smiling.
**
Within a week, other guilds were striking in sympathy with the Seamstresses. The Cloth Guild and the Guild of Undergarments joined in, delivering a great blow to the city's ability to get new sheets, corsets and long underwear. The Guild of Hotelliers nearly joined, but instead went to the Patrician to complain about how much money they were losing each day. That began a flood of complaints. Dock workers and sailors showed up right behind the hotel owners, and the managers of adult-oriented bookstores and theaters. Purveyors of fine erotic products also made their voices heard. Sonky sales plummeted. The Carters Guild complained about seamstresses blocking the streets, merchants protested seamstresses hanging out making lewd gestures and comments in the market squares.
Lord Downey sat at his desk and looked at the mail sacks lying on the floor of his office. They were the kind of burlap things usually reserved for shipping potatoes. There were ten of them.
"These are all from today."
"Yes, sir," said Lercaro.
"Related to the strike."
"Yes, sir."
Downey rubbed his eyes and held out a hand. Lercaro handed him a random letter out of a bag. The Patrician handled it with mild distaste.
Dear sir, I must protest thee contination of the strike of the hores. Seeing as You are not marreed, You peraps do not no of thee importence of getting thee husband out of thee house sometimes and letting him have his fun. As a propper wife, I have more important things to do then entertane every mood of my husband. For thee sake of marrital harmony, pleese stop thee strike. Sincerest regards, Mrs. Alma Moccasin-Smythe.
Downey set the letter aside.
"This is representative," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Even housewives want the seamstresses back at work."
"It appears so, sir."
Downey pinched the bridge of his nose. "Remove the rest."
He turned again to the reports on his desk, most of them urgent financial estimates of losses should the strike continue. It was surprising what an economic impact the seamstresses had. By Mr. Fisk's calculations, it was a multi-million dollar industry. Not annually. Monthly. The peripheral effects, the ripples into other industries, made the losses even worse.
Mrs. Palm had proven herself immovable. Downey had met with her and other officers of the Seamstress Guild three times but nothing had been resolved. It was obvious why. Nothing was stated but Downey was not a complete fool.
Lercaro returned with the latest clacks messages from around the Disc. The Patrician flipped through them eagerly, then tossed them on his desk.
"Why haven't I got anything from Townsend?"
"He must have the message by now, sir."
"Send it again."
Lercaro turned to leave.
"Wait…"
Downey looked around the Oblong Office. His office. He'd tried to be fair. He'd tried to be merciful. It was others who forced him to act…ungentlemanly. All Vetinari had to do was sit quietly on his island and leave Ankh-Morpork to feed him and pay for his servants and get back on its feet without him. It would happen. Downey knew it would. The little bumps in the early days of his reign would surely smooth out. If he was free of interference.
He took a paper out of a desk drawer.
"I want the people on this list arrested. And…" He took a breath and exhaled slowly. "Send a clacks to Kinsey. Tell him Vetinari should be…" He made a sign with his hand.
Lercaro didn't move.
"You understand?"
"Yes, sir. It's just that--"
"What?"
"His contract is at a million dollars, sir."
"It isn't a contract, Lercaro, it's an edict of the Patrician."
"But, sir--"
"Do it!"
When the clerk left, Downey went slowly to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a scotch. He was in a haze, his head unclear. That he'd ordered Vetinari's death wasn't the problem. It was that Vetinari – a lord, a gentleman – would ally himself with the riffraff of Ankh-Morpork. Prostitutes, beggars, thieves, cops, non-humans. Vetinari seemed to think power could be gained from the bottom up. The social values of Lord Downey were insulted by it. The world didn't work that way. Power came from the people educated, enlightened and financially independent enough to wield it appropriately – the upper class. Bad enough that Vetinari had shored up the City Council, which gave some measure of power to bakers, butchers, tinkers and other commoners. Now he had to appeal to the very bottom of the social ladder. Hanna Stein was obviously a bad influence.
The list Lercaro gave to the head of the Palace Guard had a dozen names on it, including Samuel Vimes, Rosemary Palm, Queen Molly, Rufus Drumknott…