Power Play: Chapter 3: Frustration Never Got You Anywhere
By Tinselcat (yo!)
Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua, Unseen University Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).
Author's Note: The wait for this chapter wasn't so bad, huh? I'm dividing my time between work, reading, writing, and trying to revive an almost nonexistent social life. That was probably more than you needed to know, but it's the truth I tell you! The truth! I never lie! And if I did, the devil made me do it! Hah!
****************
Like a dusty, bedraggled parrot with clipped wings, Rincewind dashed through the gates of the Unseen University. His threadbare robes flapped about his legs. He held a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, and held the brim of his hat with the other. He skidded around a corner, nearly bowling over Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler in the process.
"Sorry," he called breathlessly over his shoulder as he pounded toward the palace gates that had just come into sight.
"Sausage inna bun?" Dibbler called hopefully after him. He didn't really expect an answer, not from that one anyway. He spotted a couple of touristy- looking people and grinned. Today's prospects were looking up.
Rincewind, unable to stop himself due to his tremendous momentum, rushed past the guards in a dusty red blur and crashed into the gates. Presently, out of the same morbid curiosity that draws people to car wrecks and reality TV, the guards approached the awkward wreckage that lay in a heap at the bottom of the iron gates. From the tangle of limbs, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, came a skinny arm, clutching a piece of paper. For a moment it resembled a ragged flag of surrender. "Gotta get inna palace. Urgent."
One of the guards gingerly took the paper and examined the red and black seal. He looked at his companion. They both shrugged. One of them unlocked the gates, causing the angular, bony mess to fall inside the gates.
It took Rincewind several moments to sort himself out. When he did, he took off at a run again into the palace and toward what he hoped would end up to be the oblong office. If he could avoid the dungeons while he was at it, all the better.
Drumknott was occupying his mind with the monotony of filing when a red blur passed by the doorway. There was a crash. In a few moments, the blur passed again, going in the other direction. There was another crash and some swear-words. Eventually, the scrawny, scruffy shape of the wizard staggered in and slumped against the doorframe.
"Where is he?" heaved Rincewind after regaining his breath.
"I don't know." Replied Drumknott sedately. He gave Rincewind a sidelong, disapproving glance. "You didn't have to rush over here. I'll notify you when Lord Vetinari is found."
"What. . . what. . ." sputtered Rincewind indignantly, "but when. . . how. . . I. . . guhbleeeeh!!" the discouraged wizard finally exclaimed as his shoulders slumped.
"I agree," replied Drumknott, "but there's nothing we can do but wait."
Rincewind put his head in his hands.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Vetinari stood upright as he heard the keys jingle in the lock to his cell. He stood rigid and still, his face a careful, blank mask. Two guards entered and stood with torches on either side of the door. A tall, thin man entered. His thin lips twisted into a smile as he peered at Vetinari over the tops of his spectacles, which reflected the light from the torches, making it seem as if there were two round holes in his head, showing the fiery depths behind his skin.
"I do hope you have not forgotten me, Lord Vetinari. . ."
Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "You work for Lord Delamorte." Replied Vetinari simply. "You are Wallace, his assistant."
"Yes," murmured Wallace, clasping his hands casually behind his back and sauntering up to Vetinari, "My lord was quite. . . shall we say. . . peeved when you ordered the destruction of his outpost in Klatch. And right after we allowed your army to enter the area. . ." he shook his head and gave a low chuckle. He began to circle Vetinari, his eyes sliding up and down the patrician's near-naked form.
"I had expected Lord Delamorte to realize my tactical position. Under the circumstances it was much more prudent to sign a treaty with the emperor at the capital than a quite unpowerful lord with delusions of self- importance." Vetinari sneered, throwing a disdainful look over his shoulder at the captor that stood behind him.
Wallace chuckled and laid a thin-fingered hand on Vetinari's bare shoulder.
There was an almost invisible flurry of movement and Wallace suddenly found his hand twisted behind his back at a nearly bone-breaking angle, with another long-fingered hand grasping his neck at the jugular, the patrician's breath scalding the back of his ear. Despite the pressure on his throat, Wallace began to laugh: another chilling sequence of sounds beginning in his gut and bubbling from his throat.
"Clever," he sneered, "I suppose it's my fault for expecting any less from you. Milord warned me that you were a dangerous man. It seems I've underestimated you."
"Your guards will release me and give me passage to the outside. Unless, of course, you aren't terribly attached to your esophagus." His voice was calm, but his fingers tightened about Wallace's throat, digging into the flesh, implying just how much damage he could do.
One of the guards started forward uncertainly but stopped, seeing the calm smile on his master's face.
Vetinari took a sharp breath through his nose as he felt cold steel press against his stomach.
"It is not my intention to kill you, Mr. Vetinari, but you're pushing my patience thus far." He prodded the thin-bladed knife into his captives abdomen. Vetinari felt a thin trail of quickly-cooling blood slide down over his skin and soak into his tattered robes. "What will it be?" Wallace murmured.
Vetinari released Wallace's wrist and throat and stepped away, "You cannot hold me forever." Vetinari's eyes were narrowed to angry slits with a cold, dark glint.
Wallace suddenly spun on his heel, his knife-wielding hand sweeping through the air at a startling speed. Vetinari's head turned as the blade sliced across his cheek, leaving a cut below his eye. Wallace stepped up close to him and planted a hand on Vetinari's narrow chest. He shoved the patrician hard against the stone wall and thrust the blade underneath the captive's chin. "I don't intend to hold you forever." He sneered, "this is only the beginning." He stepped away and exited the cell. The keys clanged in the lock as the cell became dark once more. "I would get some rest, if I were you." Wallace's voice echoed back down the passage, "because it will be the last you will get for a good while."
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Angua trotted into Vimes' office, buckling the last buckle on her breastplate and shoving a few stray strands of hair from her face. She waited at ease next to the door until Vimes was finished conversing with Detritus, which was taking some time.
"I want you to go on rounds in the Shades, understand?"
"You want I should walk in circles out of the light? Okay." He turned to lwave.
"No! nononono! I want you to patrol that area of the city."
" 'trol the city?"
"Yes."
"Me?"
"Yes."
Detritus' eyebrows came together with a grinding sound, "But city already 'trolled. Trolls live in city for lotsa time."
Vimes began to massage his temples. "Detritus,"
"Yes, c'mmandor."
"I want you,"
"Yes c'mmandor."
"To go to the Shades,"
"Go inna shade. . ."
"And walk around."
"Walk inna circle."
"Aaaargh!"
"An' lotsa boiling oil."
"Just. . . just. . . follow Nobby and Cheri."
" 'kay"
"You're dismissed."
" 'kay." Detritus shuffled out, nodding at Angua as he passed her.
"Report, Lance-Constable Angua." Sighed Vimes, gently resting his forehead upon his desk.
"It doesn't look good, Commander. Whoever is behind this was prepared for me. The trail was already faint to start with, but the scent was completely lost after it crossed the bridge. They used some sort of agent that irritates my nose and spread it all over the ground. I still can't smell much, but it's slowly coming back."
"Can you track the agent?"
"Theoretically, if I sniff for about a minute then rest for probably a couple days, but it would take forever to get anywhere. By then, who knows what could happen?"
Vimes sat up and nodded. "shit." He growled. He stood up and paced to the window and commenced to scowl at the city. "He could be dead by now."
"If he isn't dead by now, it's doubtful that they'll kill him at all."
Vimes glanced at her over his shoulder, "That could be worse."
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Vetinari awoke to the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway toward him. He slumped against the wall facing the door. His eyes fell on the bowl of stale water which was the last thing he'd consumed. He had no idea of the passage of time. It had become measured only with the changing of the guard and the tapping of their boots along the corridor. Not even they carried torches and Vetinari's eyes had become accustomed to the light. He found himself feeling the absence of rats, who he had been able to organize and govern the last time he was locked up. Even then he had felt powerful. He had been secure in the knowledge of his own superiority. But now he was alone in the darkness. No plan, no escape route, none of his meticulous thoughts and exact knowledge could help him now. The only thing he could do was wait for the next opportunity- any opportunity- to get leverage from his current position.
He stared at the barred square of light in the door as it became brighter. Usually the presence of light brought people hope. *how easily can society's symbols be twisted. . .* he thought wryly to himself as the door swung open on predictably creaky, rusty old hinges.
Wallace strolled in, a smirk on his face., "How are we doing today?" he placed his hands on his knees and leaned down toward Vetinari so their eyes were almost level, "As our special guest, you'll be getting the executive treatment."
"I don't suppose your communication skills our quite advanced enough to understand that whatever information you hope to extract, you won't receive it from me."
"It's not information that I want from you." Said Wallace softly. He straightened and gestured to the guards.
Vetinari grunted as he was hauled upright by his arms. One of the guards threw one end of a rope through a metal loop in the ceiling of the cell. He bound Vetinari's wrists together and hoisted them above his head until the patrician was forced onto his toes. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to let Wallace see the quickening of his breath or that his heart was speeding up, pumping against his chest like a hammer to his ribs. He knew what was coming.
There was a quick *whish* of air, a sharp crack, and Vetinari felt a burning, stinging line like a streak of fire cross his back. There was another snap, and another acid stripe joined the last one.
Wallace frowned as he brought his arm back for another blow with the slender, cruel whip. He had expected some sort of reaction. Not a big one, but something nonetheless. He thrust his arm forward and another blow landed. He noticed that Vetinari's shoulders had begun to shake. Guttural, choking sounds came from the patrician. He was pleased and confused at the same time. Progress was being made sooner than he had anticipated, if he had already managed to drive Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to tears. It was with a clenching in his gut, as the strange sounds got louder, that he realized that Vetinari was laughing.
Vetinari was in pain. But somehow, it all seemed so absurd. Another throatful of laughter bubbled through his lips. It started low, in his chest, then became more high-pitched, like a drunk banshee. Another blow landed, but this only prompted him to more laughter. Here he was, the patrician of Ankh-Morpork, one of the most powerful men on the disc, controller of the largest city on this world, standing in a dungeon taking a flogging from some grudge-holding flunkie. He had no control. Nothing at all, neither blasphemy or reason would make any kind of difference to the man behind him.
Wallace abruptly stopped when he saw that Vetinari's back bore a bright red criss-cross pattern, the stark color against pale flesh slowly bleeding down from the initial stripes, like the final masterpiece painting of a madman. "But this isn't my final masterpiece. . ." the captor murmured underneath his breath.
Vetinari's laughter subsided into small, low chuckles that still held no humor, almost as if they were coming from a dead man. A dead man that nonetheless could look his tormentors in the eye and sneer.
"Well," said Wallace, trying to mask his surprise at Vetinari's strange reaction, "I'm glad you find this situation so amusing."
The guard cut Vetinari down. He tried to remain standing, but his knees buckled and he fell to them. His laughter had faded and he was breathing hard, his icy stare boring into the wall in front of him.
"I think you'll find that from here on, there won't be much to laugh about. Enjoy your night. . ." Wallace dragged his gaze over Vetinari's thin form once more. He licked his lips, but frowned and marched out of the cell when he failed to get a reaction.
Vetinari was left alone in the dark once more. He knew about torture. Research of different methods had always been a subject of light reading for him. There were plenty of extremely painful things they could do to him. Things that dragged on. Things that could drive a man insane, if only to escape his body and mind to ease the pain. But none of the things in textbooks would help Wallace. The scheming rat knew it, too. He knew it would take more than thumb-screws and an iron maiden to hit Vetinari where it hurt. But Wallace was no fool. He would do something. . . something that would hurt. Something that would make the Patrician flinch. And there wasn't a damn thing Vetinari could do about it. Alone, in his dark cell, he began to laugh again.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I realize it's gotten kind of. . . weird. What with Vetinari sort of going off his nut and all. . . actually, I'm reading a Stephen King novel right now, so I'm all like "ooooh, scary. . .". by the time the element of humor re-enters the story, I should be reading Feet of Clay or Hogfather, whichever comes first. (I'm going to have to skip Jingo for now. The bookstore didn't have it.) so I'll be in a more Pratchett-esque state of mind. The devil made me do it. God, I love that phrase.
By Tinselcat (yo!)
Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Drumknott, Carrot, Angua, Unseen University Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).
Author's Note: The wait for this chapter wasn't so bad, huh? I'm dividing my time between work, reading, writing, and trying to revive an almost nonexistent social life. That was probably more than you needed to know, but it's the truth I tell you! The truth! I never lie! And if I did, the devil made me do it! Hah!
****************
Like a dusty, bedraggled parrot with clipped wings, Rincewind dashed through the gates of the Unseen University. His threadbare robes flapped about his legs. He held a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, and held the brim of his hat with the other. He skidded around a corner, nearly bowling over Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler in the process.
"Sorry," he called breathlessly over his shoulder as he pounded toward the palace gates that had just come into sight.
"Sausage inna bun?" Dibbler called hopefully after him. He didn't really expect an answer, not from that one anyway. He spotted a couple of touristy- looking people and grinned. Today's prospects were looking up.
Rincewind, unable to stop himself due to his tremendous momentum, rushed past the guards in a dusty red blur and crashed into the gates. Presently, out of the same morbid curiosity that draws people to car wrecks and reality TV, the guards approached the awkward wreckage that lay in a heap at the bottom of the iron gates. From the tangle of limbs, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, came a skinny arm, clutching a piece of paper. For a moment it resembled a ragged flag of surrender. "Gotta get inna palace. Urgent."
One of the guards gingerly took the paper and examined the red and black seal. He looked at his companion. They both shrugged. One of them unlocked the gates, causing the angular, bony mess to fall inside the gates.
It took Rincewind several moments to sort himself out. When he did, he took off at a run again into the palace and toward what he hoped would end up to be the oblong office. If he could avoid the dungeons while he was at it, all the better.
Drumknott was occupying his mind with the monotony of filing when a red blur passed by the doorway. There was a crash. In a few moments, the blur passed again, going in the other direction. There was another crash and some swear-words. Eventually, the scrawny, scruffy shape of the wizard staggered in and slumped against the doorframe.
"Where is he?" heaved Rincewind after regaining his breath.
"I don't know." Replied Drumknott sedately. He gave Rincewind a sidelong, disapproving glance. "You didn't have to rush over here. I'll notify you when Lord Vetinari is found."
"What. . . what. . ." sputtered Rincewind indignantly, "but when. . . how. . . I. . . guhbleeeeh!!" the discouraged wizard finally exclaimed as his shoulders slumped.
"I agree," replied Drumknott, "but there's nothing we can do but wait."
Rincewind put his head in his hands.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Vetinari stood upright as he heard the keys jingle in the lock to his cell. He stood rigid and still, his face a careful, blank mask. Two guards entered and stood with torches on either side of the door. A tall, thin man entered. His thin lips twisted into a smile as he peered at Vetinari over the tops of his spectacles, which reflected the light from the torches, making it seem as if there were two round holes in his head, showing the fiery depths behind his skin.
"I do hope you have not forgotten me, Lord Vetinari. . ."
Vetinari raised an eyebrow, "You work for Lord Delamorte." Replied Vetinari simply. "You are Wallace, his assistant."
"Yes," murmured Wallace, clasping his hands casually behind his back and sauntering up to Vetinari, "My lord was quite. . . shall we say. . . peeved when you ordered the destruction of his outpost in Klatch. And right after we allowed your army to enter the area. . ." he shook his head and gave a low chuckle. He began to circle Vetinari, his eyes sliding up and down the patrician's near-naked form.
"I had expected Lord Delamorte to realize my tactical position. Under the circumstances it was much more prudent to sign a treaty with the emperor at the capital than a quite unpowerful lord with delusions of self- importance." Vetinari sneered, throwing a disdainful look over his shoulder at the captor that stood behind him.
Wallace chuckled and laid a thin-fingered hand on Vetinari's bare shoulder.
There was an almost invisible flurry of movement and Wallace suddenly found his hand twisted behind his back at a nearly bone-breaking angle, with another long-fingered hand grasping his neck at the jugular, the patrician's breath scalding the back of his ear. Despite the pressure on his throat, Wallace began to laugh: another chilling sequence of sounds beginning in his gut and bubbling from his throat.
"Clever," he sneered, "I suppose it's my fault for expecting any less from you. Milord warned me that you were a dangerous man. It seems I've underestimated you."
"Your guards will release me and give me passage to the outside. Unless, of course, you aren't terribly attached to your esophagus." His voice was calm, but his fingers tightened about Wallace's throat, digging into the flesh, implying just how much damage he could do.
One of the guards started forward uncertainly but stopped, seeing the calm smile on his master's face.
Vetinari took a sharp breath through his nose as he felt cold steel press against his stomach.
"It is not my intention to kill you, Mr. Vetinari, but you're pushing my patience thus far." He prodded the thin-bladed knife into his captives abdomen. Vetinari felt a thin trail of quickly-cooling blood slide down over his skin and soak into his tattered robes. "What will it be?" Wallace murmured.
Vetinari released Wallace's wrist and throat and stepped away, "You cannot hold me forever." Vetinari's eyes were narrowed to angry slits with a cold, dark glint.
Wallace suddenly spun on his heel, his knife-wielding hand sweeping through the air at a startling speed. Vetinari's head turned as the blade sliced across his cheek, leaving a cut below his eye. Wallace stepped up close to him and planted a hand on Vetinari's narrow chest. He shoved the patrician hard against the stone wall and thrust the blade underneath the captive's chin. "I don't intend to hold you forever." He sneered, "this is only the beginning." He stepped away and exited the cell. The keys clanged in the lock as the cell became dark once more. "I would get some rest, if I were you." Wallace's voice echoed back down the passage, "because it will be the last you will get for a good while."
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Angua trotted into Vimes' office, buckling the last buckle on her breastplate and shoving a few stray strands of hair from her face. She waited at ease next to the door until Vimes was finished conversing with Detritus, which was taking some time.
"I want you to go on rounds in the Shades, understand?"
"You want I should walk in circles out of the light? Okay." He turned to lwave.
"No! nononono! I want you to patrol that area of the city."
" 'trol the city?"
"Yes."
"Me?"
"Yes."
Detritus' eyebrows came together with a grinding sound, "But city already 'trolled. Trolls live in city for lotsa time."
Vimes began to massage his temples. "Detritus,"
"Yes, c'mmandor."
"I want you,"
"Yes c'mmandor."
"To go to the Shades,"
"Go inna shade. . ."
"And walk around."
"Walk inna circle."
"Aaaargh!"
"An' lotsa boiling oil."
"Just. . . just. . . follow Nobby and Cheri."
" 'kay"
"You're dismissed."
" 'kay." Detritus shuffled out, nodding at Angua as he passed her.
"Report, Lance-Constable Angua." Sighed Vimes, gently resting his forehead upon his desk.
"It doesn't look good, Commander. Whoever is behind this was prepared for me. The trail was already faint to start with, but the scent was completely lost after it crossed the bridge. They used some sort of agent that irritates my nose and spread it all over the ground. I still can't smell much, but it's slowly coming back."
"Can you track the agent?"
"Theoretically, if I sniff for about a minute then rest for probably a couple days, but it would take forever to get anywhere. By then, who knows what could happen?"
Vimes sat up and nodded. "shit." He growled. He stood up and paced to the window and commenced to scowl at the city. "He could be dead by now."
"If he isn't dead by now, it's doubtful that they'll kill him at all."
Vimes glanced at her over his shoulder, "That could be worse."
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Vetinari awoke to the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway toward him. He slumped against the wall facing the door. His eyes fell on the bowl of stale water which was the last thing he'd consumed. He had no idea of the passage of time. It had become measured only with the changing of the guard and the tapping of their boots along the corridor. Not even they carried torches and Vetinari's eyes had become accustomed to the light. He found himself feeling the absence of rats, who he had been able to organize and govern the last time he was locked up. Even then he had felt powerful. He had been secure in the knowledge of his own superiority. But now he was alone in the darkness. No plan, no escape route, none of his meticulous thoughts and exact knowledge could help him now. The only thing he could do was wait for the next opportunity- any opportunity- to get leverage from his current position.
He stared at the barred square of light in the door as it became brighter. Usually the presence of light brought people hope. *how easily can society's symbols be twisted. . .* he thought wryly to himself as the door swung open on predictably creaky, rusty old hinges.
Wallace strolled in, a smirk on his face., "How are we doing today?" he placed his hands on his knees and leaned down toward Vetinari so their eyes were almost level, "As our special guest, you'll be getting the executive treatment."
"I don't suppose your communication skills our quite advanced enough to understand that whatever information you hope to extract, you won't receive it from me."
"It's not information that I want from you." Said Wallace softly. He straightened and gestured to the guards.
Vetinari grunted as he was hauled upright by his arms. One of the guards threw one end of a rope through a metal loop in the ceiling of the cell. He bound Vetinari's wrists together and hoisted them above his head until the patrician was forced onto his toes. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips tightly together, refusing to let Wallace see the quickening of his breath or that his heart was speeding up, pumping against his chest like a hammer to his ribs. He knew what was coming.
There was a quick *whish* of air, a sharp crack, and Vetinari felt a burning, stinging line like a streak of fire cross his back. There was another snap, and another acid stripe joined the last one.
Wallace frowned as he brought his arm back for another blow with the slender, cruel whip. He had expected some sort of reaction. Not a big one, but something nonetheless. He thrust his arm forward and another blow landed. He noticed that Vetinari's shoulders had begun to shake. Guttural, choking sounds came from the patrician. He was pleased and confused at the same time. Progress was being made sooner than he had anticipated, if he had already managed to drive Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to tears. It was with a clenching in his gut, as the strange sounds got louder, that he realized that Vetinari was laughing.
Vetinari was in pain. But somehow, it all seemed so absurd. Another throatful of laughter bubbled through his lips. It started low, in his chest, then became more high-pitched, like a drunk banshee. Another blow landed, but this only prompted him to more laughter. Here he was, the patrician of Ankh-Morpork, one of the most powerful men on the disc, controller of the largest city on this world, standing in a dungeon taking a flogging from some grudge-holding flunkie. He had no control. Nothing at all, neither blasphemy or reason would make any kind of difference to the man behind him.
Wallace abruptly stopped when he saw that Vetinari's back bore a bright red criss-cross pattern, the stark color against pale flesh slowly bleeding down from the initial stripes, like the final masterpiece painting of a madman. "But this isn't my final masterpiece. . ." the captor murmured underneath his breath.
Vetinari's laughter subsided into small, low chuckles that still held no humor, almost as if they were coming from a dead man. A dead man that nonetheless could look his tormentors in the eye and sneer.
"Well," said Wallace, trying to mask his surprise at Vetinari's strange reaction, "I'm glad you find this situation so amusing."
The guard cut Vetinari down. He tried to remain standing, but his knees buckled and he fell to them. His laughter had faded and he was breathing hard, his icy stare boring into the wall in front of him.
"I think you'll find that from here on, there won't be much to laugh about. Enjoy your night. . ." Wallace dragged his gaze over Vetinari's thin form once more. He licked his lips, but frowned and marched out of the cell when he failed to get a reaction.
Vetinari was left alone in the dark once more. He knew about torture. Research of different methods had always been a subject of light reading for him. There were plenty of extremely painful things they could do to him. Things that dragged on. Things that could drive a man insane, if only to escape his body and mind to ease the pain. But none of the things in textbooks would help Wallace. The scheming rat knew it, too. He knew it would take more than thumb-screws and an iron maiden to hit Vetinari where it hurt. But Wallace was no fool. He would do something. . . something that would hurt. Something that would make the Patrician flinch. And there wasn't a damn thing Vetinari could do about it. Alone, in his dark cell, he began to laugh again.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I realize it's gotten kind of. . . weird. What with Vetinari sort of going off his nut and all. . . actually, I'm reading a Stephen King novel right now, so I'm all like "ooooh, scary. . .". by the time the element of humor re-enters the story, I should be reading Feet of Clay or Hogfather, whichever comes first. (I'm going to have to skip Jingo for now. The bookstore didn't have it.) so I'll be in a more Pratchett-esque state of mind. The devil made me do it. God, I love that phrase.