A-Note: Hi all! Zephr- Pratchett is known for being very close to his fans. I thought he was a great sport. Yea to see Jurious again! Ivy and Drakyndra – the real question was how to get Vetinari away from his horde of adoring women (of which I was one)! I have a great photo of us. I don't think I saw him drinking alcohol, btw. Ok, the saga continues with...

3. Naughty Devil

Hanna spent the day tending to Madam. Nothing was said about Maltesi and the chocolate, though Hanna assumed Madam would find out eventually. Lord Vetinari's aunt had eyes and ears everywhere. He had to have learned it from somewhere.

By mid-afternoon, Madam was still weak but determined to fight it. They had tea in the Awfully Orange Drawing Room, then a collection of old, yellowed iconographs were spread across a table.

One was the only extant nude iconograph of Havelock Vetinari.

It was probably the pudgiest he'd ever been in his life. Hanna grinned down at a thick-cheeked baby that leaned on his chubby elbow and had a concentrated look on his face that could have been deep thought or gas. The curve of his infant buttocks was hazy but still recognizable.

"He looked like himself," said Hanna.

"Actually, he looked like his father."

Madam set a different iconograph on top of the baby picture. It was a young man, about 30, and a dead ringer for Lord Vetinari, which wasn't a surprise because he was Lord Vetinari. A generation earlier. The Vetinari in the iconograph was in Assassins black, his arms folded as he leaned against an Ephebian column, but there was a relaxed smile on his face that the Vetinari Hanna knew never showed in public.

"Handsome devil," she said.

"He was a great man," said Madam. "And a great loss to everyone who knew him. His name was Stanwyck, by the way." She smiled. "The family was terrible with names."

"Your nephew mentioned once he died in an accident."

"That's the official story, yes. Stanwyck accidentally fell backward on a knife. Two of them, actually." Madam gazed down at the iconograph. "Every Lord Vetinari for the past eight generations has died of assassination, Hanna. A Vetinari son has the choice of fearing for his life or developing nerves of steel. The latter was not difficult for Havelock. I believe he was born with them. He took the news of his father's death very calmly, even for an 8-year-old."

Lord Stanwyck Vetinari had one of those gazes that followed you no matter where his image was. Hanna's eyes kept getting drawn back to it. She tried to ignore it, and instead picked up a random image.

It was Havelock again. He was in black knee pants and a blazer and he had a black beanie on his head not unlike the one he wore as Patrician. It was obviously the first day of school and he didn't look happy about it. He glowered out of the picture, the black satchel in his hand dragging on the ground.

"That was right after Stanwyck's death," said Madam. "Leonora thought it best to send him to the Assassins at last." She slipped another iconograph out of the stack and handed it to Hanna. "My younger sister."

It was a portrait of a young woman looking over her shoulder. She had pale hair and a languid look in her eyes.

"She was beautiful," said Hanna.

"Yes, she was blessed with that. Beauty makes up for so many other things." Madam paused. "She took her husband's death very hard. A few weeks after Stanwyck died, she was found dead in her bed, wasted away. I don't believe she ate a thing after the funeral."

"I'm sorry... That's horrible."

"Leonora was always a sensitive soul." Madam tucked the iconograph of her sister under a stack of others. "Our families agreed to simplify the story of their deaths. Stanwyck's for...political reasons, and Leonora's because such drama was rather embarrassing to everyone. Havelock never questioned any of it."

Hanna began pawing through the stacks. "Are there any old pictures of you here?"

"I have some somewhere. But come. No more sad stories. Take a look at this. What do you think?"

"Oh, my..."

Looking at Havelock Vetinari at nineteen was like looking at a leopard, all sleekness and stealth. He was sprawled in an armchair, one leg thrown over the arm. The iconograph was old but Hanna could see his boots gleaming, and he had a little self-satisfied smirk on his face that wasn't much of a surprise since most young men that age could achieve it.

"If I hadn't been a little kid back then, I would've worshipped at his feet."

"He'd just got back from the Grand Sneer, his tour of foreign countries," said Madam. "Did he tell you about that?"

"Only that he travelled for a year or so."

"He had a marvellous time, apparently." Madam clicked her tongue. "Naughty boy that he was. My dear friend Lady Margolotta should have known better."

Hanna's smile dropped at the mention of the Uberwaldean vampire that had some sort of relationship with the Patrician. Relationship was one of those words with meanings as slippery as a bog toad. Instead of thinking about it too closely, Hanna said, "You know her?"

"Of course. He wouldn't have met her without invitation. A very warm-hearted lady, though that's not what she's known for. When you meet her, don't take her icy exterior at face value. Much like my nephew, if you chip through the surface, the softer bits are revealed." Madam smiled. "Still, I had no idea at the time that she would take such an interest in him."

"There's not a lot most women could do against a boy like that," Hanna said grudgingly.

"No, indeed. Yet he always did prefer older women. Lady Margolotta wasn't the only one." Her smile broadened. "She wasn't even the only one on the Grand Sneer. I am choosing not to name two other countries in which my nephew could have been imprisoned or beheaded as a result of his extracurricular activities. I did suggest he get it all out of his system while he was gone but I never expected him to take me so literally. He used to be that way, you know. Very literal. And far too serious."

"You won't give a little hint?" asked Hanna. "You don't have to say a thing. Just nod if I get the right country. Ephebie?"

Madam was smiling but she didn't move.

"Klatch?"

The smile widened.

"Djelibeybi?"

Madam nodded once and Hanna said, "A Djelibeybian princess?"

"No details. That sort of thing Havelock should tell you some day if he chooses."

"He was just talking about Djeliybeybi before I left. The new general that took over is a bit of a horse's ass, isn't he?"

"Intelligent, dangerous and foolish. An explosive combination. He also happens to be the oldest son of my nephew's old acquaintance."

This bit of information put Lord Vetinari's concerns about Djelibeybian trade in a new light. Hanna raised her eyebrows, a habit she'd picked up from him.

"Is she still alive?"

"Dead ten years. She never told anyone about her encounter. And when I say she never did, she never did. I have...sources."

Madam gave a tight, rapid smile, much like Vetinari's.

"The General is only a little younger than Havelock, and a very proud man. If he knew about his mother's hijinks, he'd personally go to Ankh-Morpork and run a sword through my nephew. Or try. I doubt he has understanding for youthful foolishness."

She walked slowly to a cabinet and pulled an iconograph out of a cubby hole.

"The lady, not long after her encounter with my nephew."

The woman in the picture looked in her 40s, dusky, her eyes rimmed with kohl, a light veil draped over her black hair.

"He had good taste after all back then," said Hanna. "Not just," she grimaced, "vampires."

"He had broad tastes. The Djeliybeybian lady was a dark beauty. Lady Margolotta was a vampiric one. The third bit of mischief on his travels was a red-head. I believe he was never one for blondes, but otherwise, he was very open minded on the issue."

Hanna had almost forgotten about the third lady. She rubbed her hands. "Was she from Borogravia? No. We've got Uberwald already. Lancre? Istanzia? No..." She went through the Disc map in her head. "City-states. Chirm? Quirm? Pseudopolis?"

Madam folded her arms.

"Ah," said Hanna. "It was Genua, wasn't it?"

Madam nodded.

Hanna was grinning madly and imagining what kind of mischief young Havelock got up to in lands as far-flung as Djelibeybi – clear on the rimward side of the Circle Sea, and Genua, a swinging city on the hubwards delta of the Ankh. She had visions of him leaping elegantly out of windows, furious husbands rattling swords at him while their wives stretched out happily under the sheets.

"You naughty, naughty devil," she said, looking at the iconograph of 19-year-old Havelock. He smirked back at her.

oOo

Hieronymous Flick was a mime in disguise.

That is, he wasn't wearing the black clothing and the white face make up and he did, when required, talk.

This didn't fool Lord Vetinari or the agents spread out across Ankh-Morpork to check up on things and make sure the Morporkians were all comfy and happy as they spun their way merrily through life. About an hour after Flick left the first secret meeting of the newly incorporated Guild of Street Entertainers, of which he was voted president, two Palace agents greeted him in a friendly fashion in the street, shoved him in a friendly fashion into a carriage and escorted him in a friendly fashion to the Oblong Office. Lord Vetinari glanced up from his paperwork, smiled at Flick in a friendly fashion, then returned to his papers.

Flick stood alone, his hands clasped behind his back to keep them from shaking. One of the Patrician's black-clad agents stood with his arms crossed at the door to the waiting room. Flick wasn't a talkative man even after a few beers, but the icy atmosphere in the Oblong Office choked him completely.

Ten minutes passed. Papers rustled as the Patrician scanned and set them carefully in stacks. He didn't look at Flick.

A wheezing cough came from under the desk. Flick bent over a little and met the malignant, rheumy eyes of Wuffles. The terrier pulled himself out of his basket and wandered up to Flick. Rather, to Flick's shoe. It was sniffed. Wuffles growled.

Papers rustled.

Now Flick's attention was divided between the most powerful man in the city ignoring him a few feet away and a malodorous terrier far too interested in his ankle. He took a step backward toward the door. Wuffles waddled forward. He growled.

Papers rustled.

It must be known that the Patrician didn't hold with street entertainment, or at least, he made it appear that he didn't because it was such a popular prejudice to have. Mimes were his least beloved of the group, though those people who stood still on a box for hours on end like statues and expected money and admiration for it were a close second. Even the beggars did something for their money. A Guild of Street Entertainers was out of the question. Yet the city's mimes, sidewalk artists, musicians too amateur to get into the Guild of Musicians, and jugglers too clumsy to get into the Guild of Jongleurs were a stubborn bunch. Now that the city was too big to close its gates off at night after kicking the entertainers out, they expected their fair share of the mysterious steaming meat pie that was Ankh-Morpork.

Wuffles took a halfhearted bite of Flick's trouser leg, let out a sneeze that wracked his little body, then lumbered back to his basket under the Patrician's desk. Flick was inspecting his trousers when the Patrician said, "To your left, Mr. Flick, are two doors."

Flick straightened, startled to hear the Patrician's voice after so much silence. He liked silence normally, his preferred method of communication being hand gestures and exaggerated facial movements. But the Patrician's brand of silence was somehow...ominous.

He looked to his left. There were two doors. They looked exactly the same.

"One door leads to your chance to go back out into this wide world of ours and to a normal life involving productive work unrelated to street entertainment or the organization of any guild thereof," said the Patrician.

He went back to his paperwork. Flick stared at the two identical doors, then turned back to the Patrician. He cleared his throat.

"And the second door, sir?"

"It doesn't."

Flick looked puzzled. He examined the two identical doors again, then looked around the Oblong Office. There were other doors.

"Er, what about the--"

"Only the two doors on your left concern you, Mr. Flick. I'm afraid life has a habit of offering limited opportunities from which we must choose what is best for ourselves and our families, should we have any. Do you have family, Mr. Flick?"

Flick nodded.

"Then I suggest you choose wisely. What shall it be? Door number one or door number two?"

Flick wandered over to the doors. There weren't any keyholes. After hesitating, he knocked softly on the first door. Nothing happened. He tried it on the second. Nothing happened again.

The Patrician watched with polite interest as Flick put his ear to both doors.

"Er, one of these doors leads to freedom, sir?"

"Of a sort, yes."

Flick didn't like the sound of that at all. But it appeared he didn't have a choice, though obviously, with two doors, he did. He silently chanted eeny-meeny-miney-mo and opened door number one. Beyond was a well-lit, cheerfully carpeted corridor. He sighed with relief and stepped out of the Oblong Office.

The Patrician was back to scanning his paperwork and was making notes on a report when Flick's cries finished echoing up from the chute he'd fallen into that led directly to the scorpion pit. The door/carpeted corridor trick was an oldie but goodie.

"Why is it," mused the Patrician, "that no one ever picks door number two?"

His agent shrugged.

"How long should we leave him there, your lordship?"

"He has three children?" The Patrician inked his quill again. "Release him in time for supper. With my compliments to Mrs. Flick."

The Patrician had known for a long time that in many cases, the best way to get a gentleman to do what is required is to appeal to the sentiments of his lady. It was, he considered, a very good thing that the tactic never worked on him.

Note: The iconograph of Havvie sprawled on a chair can be seen at Priscellie's art site: www dot deviantart dot come slash deviation slash 4910967. (URL wouldn't upload, for some reason). Thanks, Priscellie!