A/N: *Sighs* I bow under the weight of my critic's commentary. Yes, I have
upped the rating, but mainly for the use of 'bastard' which may soil the
eyes of my younger friends. Am having trouble with the next part, but
hopefully will get there.
Disclaim disclaim disclaim. I do believe you all understand this by now.
CHAPTER 4 - Arrival
There was a tension in the air.
"All right you bastard," Vimes growled. "Just what exactly are you planning?"
"I really don't know what you mean, Commander," Vetinari smiled, the very soul of gentility.
If only he'd smirk, Vimes thought bitterly. Glance knowingly. Laugh. Even sneer a little. Not just sit there and raise his delicately formed eyebrows in that slightly injured, surprised manner, as though /I've/ done /him/ an injustice. Those eyebrows of his should be bloody confiscated. They're bloody not-so-concealed weapons.
Of course, Vimes wasn't really angry at Vetinari. Oh, he was annoyed at him, and of course a large amount of the low-grade anger continually thumping around Vimes' body was sent in his direction, but currently the Commander of the City Watch was too worried to centre any sort of hard-core anger on anybody.
He was worried about his family. Not about their safety or anything. In fact, he was having more and more reason to worry about his own safety. Because now all the Lords and Ladies had shuffled in (1) and Sybil and Sam were not among them (2). They weren't just late now. They were /fashionably/ late. Which Vimes just /knew/ the Assassins would be making note of and gloating over (4). And now he was wondering if his original idea of coming early so as to avoid being the centre of attention in a ghastly ceremony when he, Sam and Sybil arrived second last really made as much sense as he had thought it did.
What Vimes did not realise, and probably would not have been pleased to realise, was that most of the dancers were worried about his family as well. Not about their safety or anything. In fact, they were having more and more reason to worry about their own safety. Because now the wizards had arrived, causing the drinks to be served, and Lady Sybil and young Lord Sam were not among the dancers. Which was a problem, because the First Course would not be served until all nobles arrived. And some of those dancers had been dancing for over five hours.
There was a shuffling near the doorway. Everyone paused expectantly, glanced at the Patrician and started dancing again. The Herald cleared his throat.
"His and Her Grace, Lady Sybil and Lord Samuel Vimes!"
There was an embarrassed pause. Vimes tried to sink into his seat. Suddenly the Herald was jerked towards the door. White-faced, he scrambled back to the podium.
"Her Grace, the Duchess Sybil Vimes, accompanied by her son, heir to the Duchy of Ankh-Morpork, Squire Samuel Vimes the Second!"
There was another pause, followed by an anxious, "Did I get it right?" by the Herald.
A sigh emanated from behind the door, then it swung open to reveal an elegantly clad young man accompanied by his far older and, well, /impressive/ mother.
Despite his discomfit, Vimes couldn't help being proud of his small family. Sybil was gorgeous in blue and Sam - Sam was stunning. His brown hair was swept back from his face and his clean-shaven jaw bespoke careful preparation. He wore a red doublet on black pants with soft black dancing shoes. Around his neck hung a necklace given to him the day he was born by Lord Vetinari - the one item of jewelry Vimes, the veteran of many a street brawl, would let him wear. He looked like a noble, but a noble who had some idea of what he was doing - his father had trained him hard and, though mostly protected from such things, he had managed to involve himself in a few fights. He was not soft, and looking at him and his mother, Vimes suddenly didn't mind his social gaffe so much.
Then the pair stepped forward, the moment broke, Vimes looked around at the faces staring at him and he remembered just where he was and why he'd always hated those bloody lords.
What a pity he was one himself.
(1) In order of rank, of course.
(2) Neither was Carrot. (3)
(3) But he wasn't a Lord, and didn't really count. Not a bit of it. What sword? What birthmark? Who is this Carrot person anyway?! /I/ don't know any Carrots. No Carrots in /this/ city. No sirree. What city?
(4) Though dressing solely in black, spending most of their time in the shadows, not generally attending public functions (5), not endorsing jewelry or perfume and mostly being observed by themselves and, very briefly, those unfortunate citizens who had, thanks to a richer citizen, come to their attention, the Assassins were the authority on current fashion.(6)
(5) Except on business.
(6) Would you argue with a body of people who had successfully produced someone like Havelock Vetinari?
Author's Commentary (Slightly different from an Author's Note): I think I went overboard slightly with the clothing description, don't you think? I must be getting soft in my old age.
Disclaim disclaim disclaim. I do believe you all understand this by now.
CHAPTER 4 - Arrival
There was a tension in the air.
"All right you bastard," Vimes growled. "Just what exactly are you planning?"
"I really don't know what you mean, Commander," Vetinari smiled, the very soul of gentility.
If only he'd smirk, Vimes thought bitterly. Glance knowingly. Laugh. Even sneer a little. Not just sit there and raise his delicately formed eyebrows in that slightly injured, surprised manner, as though /I've/ done /him/ an injustice. Those eyebrows of his should be bloody confiscated. They're bloody not-so-concealed weapons.
Of course, Vimes wasn't really angry at Vetinari. Oh, he was annoyed at him, and of course a large amount of the low-grade anger continually thumping around Vimes' body was sent in his direction, but currently the Commander of the City Watch was too worried to centre any sort of hard-core anger on anybody.
He was worried about his family. Not about their safety or anything. In fact, he was having more and more reason to worry about his own safety. Because now all the Lords and Ladies had shuffled in (1) and Sybil and Sam were not among them (2). They weren't just late now. They were /fashionably/ late. Which Vimes just /knew/ the Assassins would be making note of and gloating over (4). And now he was wondering if his original idea of coming early so as to avoid being the centre of attention in a ghastly ceremony when he, Sam and Sybil arrived second last really made as much sense as he had thought it did.
What Vimes did not realise, and probably would not have been pleased to realise, was that most of the dancers were worried about his family as well. Not about their safety or anything. In fact, they were having more and more reason to worry about their own safety. Because now the wizards had arrived, causing the drinks to be served, and Lady Sybil and young Lord Sam were not among the dancers. Which was a problem, because the First Course would not be served until all nobles arrived. And some of those dancers had been dancing for over five hours.
There was a shuffling near the doorway. Everyone paused expectantly, glanced at the Patrician and started dancing again. The Herald cleared his throat.
"His and Her Grace, Lady Sybil and Lord Samuel Vimes!"
There was an embarrassed pause. Vimes tried to sink into his seat. Suddenly the Herald was jerked towards the door. White-faced, he scrambled back to the podium.
"Her Grace, the Duchess Sybil Vimes, accompanied by her son, heir to the Duchy of Ankh-Morpork, Squire Samuel Vimes the Second!"
There was another pause, followed by an anxious, "Did I get it right?" by the Herald.
A sigh emanated from behind the door, then it swung open to reveal an elegantly clad young man accompanied by his far older and, well, /impressive/ mother.
Despite his discomfit, Vimes couldn't help being proud of his small family. Sybil was gorgeous in blue and Sam - Sam was stunning. His brown hair was swept back from his face and his clean-shaven jaw bespoke careful preparation. He wore a red doublet on black pants with soft black dancing shoes. Around his neck hung a necklace given to him the day he was born by Lord Vetinari - the one item of jewelry Vimes, the veteran of many a street brawl, would let him wear. He looked like a noble, but a noble who had some idea of what he was doing - his father had trained him hard and, though mostly protected from such things, he had managed to involve himself in a few fights. He was not soft, and looking at him and his mother, Vimes suddenly didn't mind his social gaffe so much.
Then the pair stepped forward, the moment broke, Vimes looked around at the faces staring at him and he remembered just where he was and why he'd always hated those bloody lords.
What a pity he was one himself.
(1) In order of rank, of course.
(2) Neither was Carrot. (3)
(3) But he wasn't a Lord, and didn't really count. Not a bit of it. What sword? What birthmark? Who is this Carrot person anyway?! /I/ don't know any Carrots. No Carrots in /this/ city. No sirree. What city?
(4) Though dressing solely in black, spending most of their time in the shadows, not generally attending public functions (5), not endorsing jewelry or perfume and mostly being observed by themselves and, very briefly, those unfortunate citizens who had, thanks to a richer citizen, come to their attention, the Assassins were the authority on current fashion.(6)
(5) Except on business.
(6) Would you argue with a body of people who had successfully produced someone like Havelock Vetinari?
Author's Commentary (Slightly different from an Author's Note): I think I went overboard slightly with the clothing description, don't you think? I must be getting soft in my old age.