It scared the hell out of me.
Chapter 6 - Fac Ut Vivas
Vetinari went out onto the balcony, quietly drinking the Ankh-Morpork air. It had been a quiet few weeks... strange, in this City That Never Sleeps, rare to be sure, but still possible.
The calm before the storm, he mused idly to himself, and chuckled. He turned back toward the door, leaning slightly on his cane, and never saw the crossbow bolt coming.
News of the assassination spread like the water from a dropped bucket. Drumknott had unintentionally started the ball rolling when, after walking cautiously into the Patrician's study and discovering Vetinari's prone form flat on the area of the floor just inside the door to the balcony, he shouted wildly for assistance, and was subsequently heard by all manner of unfortunately gossip-prone individuals. The watch, of course, was summoned immediately.
Commander Vimes sped to the palace, Captain Carrot and Corporal Littlebottom close behind. There was a definite sense of deja vu here... this was, what, the third assassination attempt? Second by crossbow bolt, no less. No, wait, the first had been bow and arrow, not crossbow... but Vimes never put much importance in the difference between the two, after all. They were all just pointy flying things.
Vimes swept into the corridor outside of Vetinari's chambers and Drumknott, having been sitting on a chair set outside the door, hurriedly got to his feet, nervous and worried. "So, what's the progress report?" Vimes asked grimly, striding to the door but pausing to look at Drumknott before entering.
"He's still alive," Drumknott said, sweat beading on his forehead. "Just not... very much."
Vimes glared at the door in front of him for a moment, and then opened it gently, quietly stepping inside the darkened room.
The room looked empty, almost. The lights were out and the window was slightly open, letting a bit of air in to sweep ineffectually around the drapes and scuff up the dust. There was evidence of some doctoring, as well as a doctor having been quickly run out, apparently with some force. A roll of linen bandages trailed off of the bed and had unrolled over a rather long length of floor.
The Patrician, breathing so softly that Vimes could barely perceive either sound or motion, lay in the gloomy bed, eyes closed. His tunic had been cut off, the grey remains draped over the back of a chair that had been pulled to the bedside. The entire right side of his chest, as well as his neck and shoulder, had been sturdily wrapped with the same thick linen bandages that lay on the floor, but a dark stain had already seeped through the cloth. Without his tunic he looked pale and skeletal, and strangely vulnerable in the dim light.
Vimes snorted a huff of aggravated air through his nose, and walked toward the chair, picking up the remains of Vetinari's tunic. The dark fabric didn't show much by way of blood in the bad light, but his hand came away dark and wet. He hadn't realized the Patrician had had it in him... he seemed too bony for so much blood.
Wiping his hand clean on his breaches, he walked back to let in Carrot and Littlebottom, nodding roughly at the Patrician's bed. "Corporal," he said, "this isn't quite forensic yet, but I still need you to get as much evidence out of the tunic and crossbow as you possibly can. Carrot, run and get Dr. Lawn. Quick as you can, understand?"
Carrot saluted and jogged off down the corridor. Drumknott glanced after the young man and then gave Vimes a worried look. "Do you... er..."
"Do I what?" Vimes asked wearily.
"Do you think he'll be all right?"
"Dr. Lawn's offices are just a few streets over," Vimes said. "Carrot can take care of himself. He's a good strong lad."
"I meant the Patrician."
"Right. I was afraid of that." Vimes let out a slow breath of cigar smoke, and then glanced at the secretary's tortured face. "Hard to say," he said gently. "But he's a tricky bugger. He's gotten out of tight situations before. He can pull it off again."
"There was... a lot of blood."
Vimes looked into the obscure depths of the room, only the shining metal of Littlebottom's helmet, bobbing around in the murk, visible from the door. "Yeah." He stubbed out his cigar absent-mindedly into the open palm of a suit of armor. Drumknott gave him a shocked and affronted look, but the commander didn't seem to see it. "I think he'll be all right. But who on the disc would assassinate the Patrician? Who, damn it, has a motive?"
There are other dark rooms in Ankh-Morpork, with less blood and fewer dying men. There are several that are full of sleeping people, for example. There are rooms filled with the clients of seamstresses and, ah, the seamstress themselves as well (although with significantly less clothing than is to be expected out on the street). And there are rooms... rooms with candles, high-backed chairs, and warped minds.
Glasses, glinting in the almost-light. "And you have... completed what you set out to do?"
"Yes. The distraction at the palace was a great help to our cause. I admire and worship your presence of mind for thinking of such a simply brilliant plan of action."
A laugh. Cheerful, light, egotistical. "Thank you for your kind words, but don't forget - we are all equals here. All of our minds are capable of great things. We are... superior. Are we not?" A round of laughter. "But still... thank you for your appreciation and admiration. It brings me joy to know I can so greatly assist such a shining member of our cause."
"I am overwhelmed by your compliments."
"You deserve the flattery, my dear. Now then... with your success, we have ushered in a new era. Soon we will be the true and recognized superiors. We have long been an object, to be laughed at, used, conquered... all manner of vile things. But you... have opened the door. My friends... shall we step through?
The room rang with enthusiastic and unanimous agreement.
The next morning the news had spread to even the highest of the aristocrats, and they were scrabbling to get things in order just in case. For once the watch had no real leads: the crossbow bolt had been completely devoid of fingerprints or poison, and it was the most popular brand and type. There had been no witnesses, and the doorway to the balcony so wide, the view so unobstructed, and the position Vetinari had fallen into so strange that it was near impossible to ascertain where, exactly, the bolt had come from.
Things went on pretty much as usual: the city would have been in an uproar had a larger number of the constituents actually cared.
To Be Continued