** I know I almost always thank all you great reviewers, but I have to do it in a specific way this time. Your comments about chapter 11 inspired me to rewrite some of the end of the story, in particular the scene where Downey gets his just desserts (in chap 13, coming right up – I swear). You've all helped me make the story better, so I thank you (*bows*). Happy Easter to all, and let the craziness continue!**
XII.
There was a small problem with Downey's arrest order. Several problems, actually.
The biggest one confronted a row of Palace Guards lined up on Scoone Avenue. They faced the Ramkin House. And three of the most antiquated siege engines they'd ever seen.
"FIRE!" shouted Vimes.
Swords in the hands of Vimes, Sergeant Angua and Captain Carrot sliced the ropes on their respective catapults. The wood creaked and whined – the engines hadn't been used in centuries – and there was a moment when Vimes thought the damned things weren't going to work, but the arms finally whipped up.
In the old days, the catapults were used by warlike Ramkin lords for the flinging of large boulders, plague victims or cows at the enemy. This didn't work now because of a range problem, good hygiene and lack of cows on the Ramkin-Vimes property. Sybil came up with an alternative. Or rather, Keith and Roderick did. They were heraldic animals that lived in a pond out back. And like all digesting creatures, what didn't come up through the mouth went out the other way. Somebody had to shovel it.
Or catapult it, in this case.
Three massive, steaming, stinking masses of heraldic doo arched gracefully threw the air. They shot like comets, leaving a trail behind them. The Guards made a run for it. They escaped with their lives and the need for a good dry cleaner.
**
The Guards kicked in the door of the flat on Cheapside. They found a small desk with an ink pot and quill, but no papers. An unpleasant smell wafted up from a box under the desk, but it was empty. Bits of wire and wood lay on the floor near the potbelly stove. This wasn't interesting, but the small piece of paper stuck in the grate of the stove was. One of the guards opened the note.
DON'T PUSH THE BUTTON.
Yours truly, Leonard.
There was something resembling a button on the bulbous surface of the stove. It looked like a thick nail had been hammered into the metal.
The Guard who'd taken up the note came to the logical conclusion that it sounded like an order, and he didn't take orders from anybody but his captain and Lord Downey.
He pressed the button.
A few moments later, something thumped. It came from inside the pot belly stove and echoed out into the room.
The Guards looked at each other.
The thumps came again, slightly wet-sounding, the noise growing.
The Guards slowly began to back out of the room. It's a good thing they did. Leonard of Quirm couldn't quite get the stove to produce enough energy to split thaums. After a visit to the market, Rufus Drumknott pointed out that there were other things that could be split just as well.
When the stove went boom, globs of something yellowish-white flew at the Guards. They screamed and tore at their eyes before they realized that nothing hurt. There was a distinctively fruity smell in the air.
One Guard scooped a bit of the warm mass off his forehead and stuck the finger in his mouth. Didn't taste bad, really. But it'd be a right mess to clean up.
**
The arrest of the guild leaders wasn't going any better. At the Beggars Guild, the Guards got annoyed at being addressed as "brother" and asked if they could spare something called a "dime." They were drooled and dribbled at so effectively that they left the guild hall without drawing their weapons. They were too busy wiping spittle off their armour.
At the Thieves Guild, the Guards stomped inside and made it all the way up to the office of assistant president Mr. Gloss before they realized that their weapons were gone. Well, not gone. In the hands of the burliest members of the Allied Trades. People who knew how to use a crowbar for more than jimmying open a door. They blocked the exits until the Guards asked them very nicely if they could give up and go home.
Mrs. Palm politely greeted the Guards who'd gone to the Seamstress Guild to arrest her. Six middle aged women in black dresses and thick shoes were arrayed behind her desk. Each of them had a straw purse over her arm. Each purse looked like it carried at least one brick. This was true, but it wasn't what made the purses very dangerous indeed.
"You intend to resist?" asked the head Guard.
Mrs. Palm smiled. "I've sent a complaint to the Palace about this already."
"Don't matter." The Guard waved at his colleagues. The moment they moved, the six women with the straw purses marched to the front of the desk and blocked it. They reached into their bags.
The Guards took a step backward.
"Now, no need for that. We was just executing an order."
The women were all smiling. Agony Aunts, the women who enforced the rules of play between clients and seamstresses, liked to smile when there was work to do. The instruments in their hands gleamed. They were sharp. It was obvious that they were not just used to cut thread.
"Snip, snip," said Mrs. Palm.
**
The message was for Kinsey's eyes only. It was the first thing it said. When Kinsey glanced through the decoded note, he stared at it for a few moments, oblivious to the bickering going on around the dining room table at the guest house. The by-laws committee of the Assassins Guild Khavian Local 18 was meeting to hammer out amendments demanded by the membership. Kinsey was serving as interim vice president of the Local and was supposed to be chairing the committee.
It occurred to him that the clacks from Lord Downey rendered all further work on the by-laws unnecessary.
But he let the men continue, excused himself and strode out into the sunlight. Townsend's recent announcement that all surveillance should be called off had grated on Kinsey, mostly because Townsend couldn't come up with a plausible reason why they should do it. There was no order from Downey. Townsend had been downright evasive when he was questioned about it. But he'd put the question to a vote in the Local and won with 17 yeas, 1 nay.
Kinsey went up to the villa. He came across Hanna in the hallway with a book cradled in her arm. She smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Kinsey."
"Good afternoon, Miss Stein. Off to do some reading?"
She tapped the book. "History of the 2nd Ephebian War. Only the recommendation of his lordship would drive me to this. The first and third wars were interesting but the second." She rolled her eyes.
"Do you happen to know where he is?"
"In the study. He said he had some work to do."
"Thank you. Enjoy your book."
He strolled off. Hanna went outside.
The study door was open but Kinsey knocked anyway. Lord Vetinari was seated at the desk, a quill in his hand. He glanced up and waved him in.
"Good afternoon, sir," said Kinsey.
"Indeed it is, Mr. Kinsey. What a pleasant surprise. Would you like to take a seat?"
"That's very nice of you, sir, thank you." Kinsey settled into an armchair opposite the desk. "Working on your book, sir?"
"Oh, on several things. There really doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day, even here."
"I feel the same way, sir. Yesterday I tried to find a Khavian Leper Plant. I walked around the whole island and couldn't find one by sundown."
"Did you try the grottoes on the peninsula on the far widdershins side of the island?"
Kinsey snapped his fingers. "I thought it might be there! I'll try it tomorrow. Thank you for the suggestion, sir."
"Not at all."
Kinsey looked out the window. He was smiling happily. Lord Vetinari watched for a while, then cleared his throat.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Kinsey?"
"Oh! Sorry, sir." Kinsey smiled sheepishly. He got to his feet. "I'm required to inform you under section 14, paragraph 7 stroke 2 of the Assassins Guild By-laws that I will be inhuming you under orders from Lord Downey."
It was one of the more puzzling and archaic rules of the Guild that whenever possible, and especially for major contracts, the Assassin was required to tell his victim what was about to happen and who ordered it. It was only polite. Even murder had its etiquette.
Lord Vetinari set down his quill and folded his hands on the desk top.
"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Kinsey."
"It is unfortunate, sir. You've been a model prisoner. Well, except for the episode with Miss Stein--"
"Which is thankfully forgiven and forgotten. May I ask if you intend to perform the inhumation now?"
"I wanted to ask what you preferred."
Lord Vetinari blinked.
"Whether I prefer to die now or at some scheduled time?"
"Yes, sir. I was thinking maybe you wanted to tidy up your affairs, write some letters to friends and family or…" He shrugged. "…maybe spend some time with Miss Stein. I'm sure the fellows will take up a collection if she lowers her rates for you."
"Ah. Very thoughtful." Vetinari put a hand over his smile. "Though I'm afraid Miss Stein is a hard-headed business woman. I doubt she would lower her standards even for me."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."
Lord Vetinari gazed at Kinsey's open, friendly face and wondered how he'd ever become an assassin. The man was a born gardener. Mild-mannered, patient, thoughtful, thorough, enthusiastic about plants. His parents probably forced him to go to the Assassins School as a boy when he belonged in a different field completely.
"I'm curious, Mr. Kinsey. What was the exact wording of Dr. Downey's order?"
"I can't show you the message, sir. It's confidential."
"Of course not. I merely wondered about the phraseology." Lord Vetinari waved a hand. "Words interest me."
The message was folded in Kinsey's pocket. He pulled it out and read aloud just the part relevant to the moment.
Lord Vetinari stroked his beard. "Have you showed it to Mr. Townsend?"
Kinsey tucked the note away. "It was for my eyes only. Confidential as I said before, sir."
"Hm." After a long pause, Vetinari stood up and held out a hand. "I congratulate you, Mr. Kinsey."
"What for, sir?"
"You're going to be a rich man. My contract is at a million dollars. You could buy a forest full of Khavian Leper Plants with that."
"I hadn't really thought about it, sir."
"You should! You should!" Vetinari put an arm around Kinsey's shoulders and walked him to the window. "It is the honour of an Assassin to inhume only for pay, and I do believe you will soon be filling the largest contract ever offered a single individual by the Guild. That is something to be proud of."
"I suppose so, sir."
Kinsey was having trouble figuring out what to do with his hands. He hadn't been nervous when he walked in but there was something about having Lord Vetinari's arm around him that made him…uneasy. He'd put a tie on for the occasion but now he loosened it a little. The room was warm for his tastes even with the open window.
Vetinari tightened his hold. Kinsey's throat went dry.
"I would like to tell you something, Mr. Kinsey. I have spent most of my life in contact with the Assassins Guild and I have never met anyone more worthy of the honour of this contract than you. There are men of the wealthier nobility, so-called gentlemen, but most have forgotten the real meaning of the words courtesy, kindness and comradeship." He squeezed Kinsey's shoulder and smiled down at him. "I can't possibly allow you to fulfil this honourable duty without your colleagues knowing of it. I would like to personally inform them of my approval of the situation."
He leaned closer…
"You, Mr. Kinsey…"
…until their noses nearly touched.
"…are worthy."
A few moments passed, during which Vetinari's smile didn't waver and Kinsey didn't release the breath he'd been holding.
"Shall we…go inform the others?" said Vetinari.
Kinsey finally let out the breath and took another and tried to calm himself. His heart was racing.
Vetinari steered him out of the villa and down the path to the guest house, his arm still around Kinsey's shoulders. Only at the guest house door did Vetinari released him.
The by-laws committee stopped its work when they saw the look on Kinsey's face.
"Problem, old chap?" asked the vice chair.
In a black silk dressing gown, Townsend strolled into the dining room, a large mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was yawning. Seeing Lord Vetinari woke him up instantly.
"Something wrong?"
Vetinari smiled broadly. "Gentlemen! I have wonderful news. Our very own Mr. Kinsey has received a message from Dr. Downey ordering my execution."
There was silence in the room. All eyes swung to Kinsey. He blushed; he didn't like being the center of attention.
Townsend set down his cup.
"Execution?"
"That was the wording of the order, Mr. Townsend," said Vetinari. "Mr. Kinsey was kind enough to read it to me. I was quite sure congratulations from his colleagues were in order."
The Assassins looked at each other.
"Lord Downey really said execution?"
Kinsey pulled the message out of his pocket and read it over again. "Yes, that's what it says."
"You can't execute anyone, Kinsey. You're an Assassin."
Kinsey looked around at his colleagues. "I don't see what practical difference it makes."
"It makes a tremendous difference," said Townsend. "Assassins inhume. It's an art form. We're not the men at the gallows or up on the scaffolding holding the axe. If we started going around executing people, we'd lower our professional standards."
"I wasn't going to use an axe, Mr. Townsend."
Off to the side, Vetinari listened with an air of amused interest.
More Assassins crowded into the dining room and were informed of the situation. The conversation grew.
"We need the exact definition of execute."
"Putting someone to death by legal sentence, I should think."
"Right. And we know to inhume is to put to death by paid contract."
"So if Lord Downey said execute and not inhume, than it seems to me no one is going to get paid."
"Kinsey, surely you aren't going to inhume Lord Vetinari for…free?"
Horrified silence descended on the dining room. Kinsey pulled out the message from Downey and read it yet again. There was no denying it. Execution was the word.
Lord Vetinari cleared his throat. "Dear me. There appears to be something of a jurisdictional problem. I will leave you gentlemen to sort it out. Do excuse me."
**
Lord Downey spent four hours listening to complaints of the City Council from his seat at one end of the oval table in the Rats Chamber. Council members complained about fighting their way through the picketers outside the Palace just to get to the meeting. The Merchants complained that striking seamstresses lounging at the markets scared away respectable buyers. The Carters complained it was impossible to make deliveries without the remains of the City Watch enforcing traffic rules with a thoroughness it had never shown before. Heads of guilds related to baked goods and confections complained about the higher costs of imported grain and sugar because of the bad blood sown when Downey called in the debts of the Sto Plains cities. The dairymen weren't even on speaking terms with the Palace.
Worse, Queen Molly and Mrs. Palm both had their places at the table. They were flanked by gibbering beggars and a handful of Agony Aunts with straw purses hanging from brawny, folded arms.
At a lull in the discussion, Queen Molly spoke up.
"Harder job than you thought, eh, Downey?"
"You will address me as Lord Downey, Molly."
"You will address me as Your Majesty, Downey."
There were snickers around the table.
"You are making a mistake working for him," said Downey, his eyes narrowed.
Queen Molly sucked a tooth for a moment. "As usual, I'm working for my guild. Who are you working for? The Assassins or yourself?"
Even Downey knew enough not to get roped into that.
"I am working for the city. You all know that."
The rumbling from around the table was not reassuring.
"Why are you still president of the Assassins, then?"
"That is an internal guild issue, Mr. Boggis," said Downey. "I am not required to answer it."
"Then perhaps you could answer this." Mrs. Palm rose from her seat. She unfolded a piece of paper. The Council members looked at her intently and Downey, not a man given to premonitions, had a sudden idea what was about to happen. He'd had an inkling of it days before when he lost the argument to get Mrs. Palm and Queen Molly permanently expelled from the Council. He kicked himself for asking the Council in the first place. He should have just done it. He was the Patrician, for goodness sake. Even a phalanx of Assassins couldn't sway the minds of the Council. Intimidation didn't work anymore. There was a new mood in the air, different from when Downey took over.
Mrs. Palm took her time reading over the paper.
"Perhaps, Dr. Downey, you could tell us why you ordered Lord Havelock Vetinari's execution without consulting the Council."
It would seem that gasps were in order but there were none. A chilled silence descended over the Rats Chamber. Only a few of the members had known. Those who didn't were too stunned to do more than stare at Downey.
"An interesting question, Rosie," said Queen Molly. "Executing a former Patrician is a serious matter, one that should not be left up to a single member of this Council."
Downey looked around at the faces. They were shocked, scared, angry. Lords Rust, Selachii, Venturii, faces furious. Why were they angry? They hated Vetinari as much as he did. He'd been quietly soliciting the lords all along for the funds required to inhume him – even Downey didn't have a million lying around – but there hadn't been any takers. Nobody had thought he was serious. And there was always the little thought that if – if – Lord Vetinari returned to power, anyone on the list of people who donated funds to inhume him might as well mix himself a toxic cocktail and drink it down in the family crypt. It'd be better than the scorpion pit.
"The Council left it to me to decide Lord Vetinari's punishment," said Downey. "It was always possible that exile would not be sufficient to--"
"Is he already dead?" asked Lord Rust with a mix of annoyance and hope.
"Well, I… Confirmation should come at any moment."
"I don't think he had the right to do that," said Boggis to his neighbor. "Not all by himself. Who does he think he is?"
"What do you mean who do I think I am? I'm the Patrician."
"You haven't been acting like one."
The complaints started up fresh, a rush of them, everyone talking at the same time. Downey fielded the questions and accusations, batting them away as best he could but they picked at him like bee stings. Worn down already by the past months, he had a hard time keeping his temper.
"…and it is my prerogative – mine alone! -- as Patrician to order executions when I see fit. Not one of you has the right to question my authority."
The lords rose from their seats, knuckles on the table, but Downey ignored them.
"Can't you see what's happening?" he cried over the noise. "Vetinari is manipulating you right now! Putting words in the mouth of seamstresses, thieves and beggars…" He pointed at the wall. "…encouraging chaos outside just to undermine my work. Don't you see? He'll sabotage his own city rather than let anyone else run it. Do you want to go back to being lapdogs to a man like that?"
The chamber door opened. The grim look on the face of the clerk Lercaro caused the silence to come again, deeper this time. He walked up to Downey and handed him a piece of paper.
The message was read in a split second. Downey read it, processed it, and knew in the end what it meant for him.
He looked at Queen Molly. She was smiling at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to give the punch line of a joke. Mrs. Palm was sterner. Downey got the feeling they knew the contents of the note already.
He put it in his pocket.
There were choruses of "What's it say?" from around the table. Downey let them demand it but said nothing. He sat back in his chair and stared at the table. He was looking pale. Greenish pale. Lercaro slipped out to get a bucket.
"May I take a guess?" asked Mrs. Palm. "Is it possible that the message says something along the lines of: Nil mortifi, sine lucre?"
The Council knew the Assassins motto well. A few moments later, they had all deduced its immediate application.
Queen Molly scratched her chin. "Hm. Appears your Assassins were expecting a financial incentive for the deed, eh, Downey? Which leads me to think what you ordered was an inhumation."
"I was thinking the same thing, Molly," said Mrs. Palm. "A grave matter, ordering an inhumation and trying to avoid the million dollar price tag by claiming it's an official execution. I might even call that fraud." She turned to the rest of the Council. "Wouldn't you?"
** Stay tuned for the final chapter… **