Oh, I love this chapter. I love this chapter. You'll see why, my fellow fangirls! Thanks a ton for the reviews. I'm happy to deliver healthy moral lust in a comic package. The last two chapters of the story may take longer to get done, but I trust this one will keep y'all toasty warm until the update. (grin).
Note: I'm not really a fangirl. I wouldn't hang around outside the Palace hoping to catch a glimpse of Vetinari if he was real. I swear. I'm more sensible than that. I really am. Really.
2. A Night in Ankh-Morpork
Later, Ankh-Morpork settled back for another night of assassinations, licensed thieving and general low-level mayhem.
The Song Pit still had a roof when Greebo and the Tomcats were through. Barely. The place only emptied out after Bongo threatened to spray the crowd with a garden hose.
Originally, Sybil, Hanna, Angua and Cheery had planned to go somewhere else after the show to talk over what they'd seen, have a bite to eat, wind down. But none of them felt like it. Outside the club, they hardly spoke to each other. After short good byes, Sybil headed to the shopping district, Angua started walking toward Pseudopolis Yard, and Cheery surprised Hanna by asking if she could share her cab.
The night proceeded for each like this:
Sybil got home right when Sam Vimes was about to head up for bed. He had a candle in his hand and a book tucked under his arm. His foot was on the bottom stair when she came through the front door holding a bundle.
"Evenin', Sybil." He kissed her cheek and looked her over. Her hair was falling out of its pins and her dress was still damp. "You look like you took a dip in the Ankh," he said. "Too hot for you at that music club?"
He wasn't known for his tact, though he was improving under Sybil's influence.
She hung her shawl on a hook. It was ripped.
"Did you have fun?" he asked. "Better have. Changing the shift for Angua and Cheery ought to have at least been worth…"
His voice faded.
Sybil was smiling a peculiar smile. She took the candle out of his hand and without a word led him up to the bedroom. There, she did a thorough examination of his trousers. They were dirty, weathered brown leather and only went down to his knees. Standard Watch issue.
The bundle was actually a bag. She reached inside and pulled out a pair of brand new black leather trousers.
Vimes looked at them warily.
"Where'd you get those? Assassins Guild sale?"
"I think they're nice."
He held them up. "Look a bit small for you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, do they?" Sybil pretended to look disappointed. "Well, maybe you could get some use out of them."
"I already got a pair of trousers."
"Those old things?" She plucked at his brown leathers.
"What's wrong with 'em?
"They're not very--"
"Clean, that's true. I'll have them washed tomorrow, I swear."
"No, I meant--"
"Stylish. Well, maybe they were when grandad wore 'em, but--"
"You wear them every day, Sam. Is that necessary?"
He looked shocked.
"It's my uniform."
"But these are so much nicer." She held the black leathers against him. They were the right length, but that didn't sway Vimes.
"They look a nip too tight where it counts, if you know what I mean."
"Just try them on. They'll be comfortable. The man at the shop told me so."
Vimes rubbed the stubble on his chin. "What was he wearing, then?"
"These exact things." The man at the shop had actually worn a dress but that wasn't something Vimes needed to know. "Try them on, Sam," she said, batting her eyes at him. "For me."
The trousers in her hands looked like they could stand up on their own. Vimes doubted their comfort value. But then, there was Sybil, blushing for some reason. He couldn't guess why. He took the things from her.
"I'll try them on. But if they pinch, you take them back tomorrow."
"They won't pinch."
She stared at him while he unbuttoned the old brown leathers, and the way she was doing it, a kind of hungry stare he didn't often see from her, made him go behind the wardrobe screen to change. It took him several tries to get the trousers buttoned properly. A tad bow legged, he emerged from behind the screen.
"Look, Sybil, the things are--"
She gasped, a hand over her mouth.
The trousers had a sucked-in gut effect, besides slimming him down. He was missing a decent pair of black boots but that could be remedied in the morning. His calves were nice to begin with, and the leather clung to them like tar and stretched over his knees and his thighs, well, they left something to be desired muscle-wise compared to Greebo, but still. Overall, they really looked quite…good.
"They're wonderful," she sighed.
"They pinch."
"I love them." She threw her arms around him and kissed him.
"Well, I reckon I could get used to them."
Sybil backed up for a better look again. "Can you tap your foot?"
"Why?"
"Humour me, Sam. Please? Just tap it. Like this." She tapped her foot. "To a beat."
Sam Vimes' sense of beat left something to be desired, but he tried anyway. Sybil clapped and he tapped his foot. When she asked him to snap his fingers at the same time he was quickly overwhelmed.
"All right," he said. "That's enough. I think I've got circulation loss happening, here." He started fiddling with the trouser buttons.
Flushed and smiling, Sybil brushed his hands away. "Here, let me do it."
She took her time. A man in black leather was a man in black leather, when you got right down to it.
Angua found Captain Carrot doing paperwork at his desk at Watch headquarters. He looked up and smiled.
"I didn't know you'd be in tonight. Did you have a good time?"
"Yes. Definitely." She did something Carrot had never seen from his self-possessed werewolf girlfriend. She twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers and let it drop again. Twisted and dropped, over and over. "Do you have time for a break?" she asked.
"Sure. Want to go for a walk? It's a beautiful night."
They walked toward Ankh, the uppity part of Ankh-Morpork. They strolled all the way to Hide Park, the pleasure garden of the wealthy. The lake glittered in the starlight.
"It's warm out," said Angua. "Aren't you warm in your armour?"
"No."
"You must be warm. Let me help you take it off."
They were by a clump of willow trees that bent over the edge of the lake. Carrot waved Angua's hands away.
"The armour's fine, Angua."
"Well, I'm too hot. It's stifling out here." She began stripping.
Captain Carrot was stunned enough to withhold all comment until she was down to her underthings.
"Er…you can't just take your clothes off on municipal property. It's a public area. It's…"
Angua straightened, her hair flipped back, every inch of skin free to enjoy the night air. She smiled. It was a peculiar smile.
Carrot cleared his throat.
"That's…er…indecent exposure, as defined in the Laws and Ordinances of the Cities of Ankh and Morpork. When you're changing, well, that's fine, that's a werewolf exception to the ordinance, but just taking your clothes off for no reason, that's…"
She strolled to the edge of the lake. The walk had something sleek and animal and inviting to it. Carrot noticed her hips and shoulders. Swinging. They didn't normally do that, did they?
"I'm going for a swim, Carrot. Coming?"
"There's rules about that. You can't swim in the lake without decent bathing attire and a floatation device approved by the Guild of Exotic Dancers, Life Guards and Preservative Manufacturers."
Carrot was taking a course in municipal law at the Guild of Lawyers. It showed.
"Come on. Be a little dangerous."
She had that smile again. Carrot had never seen it before.
"I don't want to report you," he said. "But I'm required to report all violations of the code."
Angua tapped his breastplate. "Let me take this off for you. If you swim in that, you'll sink like a stone."
"I think there's a ten dollar fine. Maybe it's twenty now. Some of the ordinances were updated so the fines are reflected in today's dollars."
Angua sighed and dug her substantial nails into his shoulder.
"Let. Me. Take. This. Off." It wasn't her time of the month but her voice still had a low-level growl.
A light went off in Carrot's head.
"Er, indecent relations in Hide Park carries a fine of--"
Angua hauled him into the willow trees.
Though it had never happened before, there was only one reason why Cheery would want to go to the Palace after hours. She and Hanna didn't say much in the carriage, and when they stepped into the courtyard, they exchanged conspiratorial smiles before going their separate ways.
One of the things they had talked about in the carriage was the location of Rufus Drumknott's bedroom and his recent sleeping habits. Hanna didn't comment on why she knew where his bedroom was (and Cheery didn't ask), but she gave accurate directions and also mentioned that the Patrician's clerk had taken to being in bed by midnight the past couple weeks. Certainly ever since his and Cheery's relationship hit rough waters.
It was information Cheery used.
His door was unlocked, the bedroom dark. Cheery tiptoed in as quietly as she could on her iron-heeled boots. Drumknott didn't snore, but his deep, regular breathing helped guide Cheery to the part of the room that contained his bed. As a dwarf, she had relatively good night vision. She could see him stretched out, his face troubled even in sleep.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
"Rufus," she whispered.
He slept on.
She leaned over him. How sweet he looked when he slept. Though of course, she wasn't much interested in sweet that night. She wondered if he'd understand that.
"Rufus," she said louder.
His eyes blinked open.
"Cheery?" he said dreamily.
"Are you awake?"
He pulled himself up.
"What are you doing here?"
"I've been thinking." Cheery paused. She knew she was crossing into some mysterious realms. Dating a human was strange enough for a dwarf. But this…
"Thinking about what?" asked Drumknott.
"About us. I was just…" She closed her eyes and the evening came back to her, the leather and crooning and swinging hips. "I think we should take our relationship to the next level."
"I thought you thought it was--"
"I change my mind. But only on one condition."
Drumknott was a clever lad. It was part of the reason he did so well in the competitive bureaucratic environment in the Palace. He didn't see very well in the dark but he could make out the outline of Cheery's head and beard, and he heard the chain mail clink when she moved. She was agitated, he could sense it. If he didn't want to completely ruin this, perhaps his last chance to fix things up with her, he'd better listen.
"Tell me, sweetheart. Whatever it is and I'll do it."
There was a pause. Then Cheery lit a candle and waved for Drumknott to stand up. He was wearing a suit in bed. He was taking his readiness to answer the call of his master to new extremes.
Cheery refrained from rolling her eyes, and said, "Do you know any dances besides those, you know, waltzes and things?"
Drumknott looked relieved. "I know the fox trot, the two-step, the--"
"No, I don't mean stuff like that." She took a breath. "You know, the kind with…er…hips."
"Hips?"
Cheery nodded.
"Like…" Slow horror dawned on Drumknott. "Belly-dancing?"
"Sort of. Can you do that?" She thought a moment. "But with the hips. Hip-dancing."
Drumknott stared at Cheery. She was looking up at him with a mix of hope and embarrassment. He thought over the sacrifice he was about to make, and whether it was worth it.
Then he tossed his jacket over a chair, snapped his fingers in the air and began to move his hips.
The Patrician Lord Vetinari, supreme ruler of the city, sat in his office reading a report. It was the quarterly budget estimate. A fat candle cast light on the desk top, where stacks of other files and reports waited for his thorough, patient review.
Hanna slipped in through the door to the waiting room.
The Patrician didn't look up from his work.
"Good evening, Hanna. I trust you enjoyed yourself."
"It was great fun. I think I'll go back tomorrow night."
The office door had a single steel bolt. When Hanna pulled, it thumped into place with a sound of finality. She crossed over to his desk.
"It was insanity, Havelock. Everyone jumping around. I did too."
"Really." The Patrician turned to the next page of the report.
"It was good exercise, at least, even if we all looked daft."
"Ah." He made a note on the page in pencil.
"It's good to just get worked up every once in a while."
"I'm sure."
Hanna looked down at him. Everything about him was peaked and stern and controlled. She knew she'd come back and find him here working. Maybe he'd get up to examine his maps or to fetch new ink but he was perfectly happy to remain in that chair the whole night. So predictable. So boring.
"Is that the quarterly budget estimate?" she asked.
"You did a fine job on it, though I did have to correct some organizational issues." He shuffled through the papers. "A table that includes municipal income from licensing fees, traffic infractions and so on should--"
She snatched the report out of his hand. Without explanation, she gathered up the other papers on his desk, one stack after another.
"Of course I was listening to you," Lord Vetinari sighed. "I'm delighted you found the evening so enjoyable." He watched her circle around to the other side of his desk to pick up the remaining files.
"It is encouraging to see you socialize with Lady Sybil," he said. "I quite approve. It upsets Vimes immensely. Not that."
The Patrician slapped a hand on the confidential foreign dispatches but Hanna pulled them out and added them to the growing stack of files in her arms. When she had everything, she dropped the column of paper into a large waste basket.
"A wonderfully efficient way to clear my desk, thought it lacks a certain thoroughness," Vetinari said. He caught her hand. "Come, now. End this childishness."
She twisted away, scooped up the basket and carried it to the conference table.
"You're not working anymore tonight," she said.
"That is not for you to decide."
She went to a cupboard and returned with a box of matches. This changed the power dynamics in the realm of decision making, and Lord Vetinari knew it. She'd have a match lit and dropped into the basket before he could cross from his desk to the conference table. He had no doubt that she'd follow through on the threat if she didn't get what she wanted. She was alarmingly good at blackmail. She called it negotiation, of course, and Vetinari couldn't really argue with that. It was negotiation in which pressure was applied to influence the outcome. He did it all the time in politics.
He rested his elbows on his desk and pressed his fingertips together. "If I am not working anymore tonight, what will I be doing? It appears you have a suggestion."
"Push ups."
He blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me, sir. If you do fifty push ups, I won't torch your paperwork."
"This has gone on long enough." He got up, but stopped when Hanna struck a match. She held it over the papers.
"I'm not in the mood to argue," she said.
He watched the flame consume the bit of wood on its way to Hanna's fingertips. She lifted a second match, ready to ignite it with the first. Obviously, she was serious.
"Ten," he said.
"Fifty."
"Fifteen."
"Fifty."
He gave an exasperated sigh. "You are not haggling correctly. And I doubt I could manage fifty."
"Forty, then."
"Fifteen."
"Thirty five."
"Twenty."
"Thirty."
"Twenty five.
Hanna paused. "Twenty five. Topless."
The Patrician leaned against the desk, a hand over his smile. "Forgive me if I find this comical."
She selected a stack of papers from the basket.
"The beer tariff," she said, lighting another match.
"That was written partly for the benefit of your family, Hanna. If you destroy it, I will not rewrite it. There will be no tariff on foreign beer as long as I am Patrician."
Hanna glanced at the papers again.
"I lied. It's the confidential report from your spies in Uberwald."
The Patrician straightened, the smile gone.
"Hanna."
"Twenty five topless push ups, sir. You have two seconds to decide."
The Patrician frowned.
Hanna touched the flame to the report. The pages caught, she blew softly and they flared up. She held them over the waste basket.
"Better hurry up," she said sweetly. "It's for your own good. You don't get enough exercise." She gave him an impish smile. "I want to see you sweat."
He didn't have a clear idea why she would want to see something as uninspiring as Havelock Vetinari sweating, but he hadn't become the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork by refusing to make sacrifices for his work. He always had. He would do it now.
And later, he would make it clear to Hanna in subtle and unpleasant ways that this was the very last time she would get away with something like this.
He unbuttoned his collar and pulled his robe over his head. He had on light trousers underneath, which he kept, but the white shirt was taken off and tossed aside. He was far too pale and thin. Hanna thought wistfully of Greebo's hyper-masculine musculature, but decided she had to work with the material she had available.
Lord Vetinari lowered himself to his knees. They were not happy about it.
"Real push ups, mind you," said Hanna. "Count out loud, please."
The first ten went smoother than she thought they would, she was disappointed to see, but it went, from her perspective, uphill from there. By twelve, he was lowering himself down slower and grunting on the way up. By fifteen, she'd set the papers aside and was on her knees in front of him, watching.
For his part, Vetinari knew that he could stop now that she'd been lured away from the waste basket. But it wasn't about the paperwork anymore. It was about honour. Maybe he was almost 50, but he should still be able to do twenty five little push ups…
By twenty, sweat was dripping off his forehead and he grunted the numbers out between clenched teeth. He was concentrating so hard on the carpet and getting his arm muscles to do what they hadn't been required to do in some years that he didn't notice Hanna unbuttoning her gown.
He collapsed at twenty five and spilled, gasping, onto his back. It was right where Hanna wanted him.
Did I mention that I love this chapter?