Chapter 8 - Ubi Est Mea Anaticula Cumminosa?

Vimes sat in the bath tub, head low in the water so that he blew bubbles when he exhaled and he had to be careful not to drown when he inhaled. There was something unknown and knobbly behind his back, right where it rested on the wall of the tub, but Vimes's muscles were too relaxed in the scalding hot water for him to bother reaching back and fishing it out.

That damn Nils woman. What was the evidence that showed he was the culprit? She was just plain mad.

Well. He was rather rich.

And he did, technically, have a believable motive.

And he did have a rather wobbly alibi.

And Vetinari was a godsawful bastard.

Vimes let out out a snort of frustration, disturbing the surface of the water and bringing up a cloud of froth and steam. Just plain mad, she was. Mad. She didn't know a clue from a turnip, most likely. And official press woman? Where had that come from? Vetinari had never mentioned anything about it.

Not that Vetinari ever told Vimes important things like that, the godsawful bastard.

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Sam?" came Sybil's muffled voice. "Are you in there?"

Vimes brought his mouth up out of the water like some sort of monster from the deep. "Yes, dear," he said damply. "What is it?"

"Young Sam is going a bit bonkers, Sam," she said, with the optimistic under-exaggeration of mothers everywhere. Somewhere beyond the door, Vimes heard muffled screeching. "Do you know where his rubber ducky is?"

Vimes pondered the conundrum. Rubber ducky... rubber ducky... hmm...

"Shouldn't it be in the baby bath, dear?" he called back, gurgling a bit.

"No, Sam, he grew out of that last month. We've been using the bath tub since then."

The bath tub?

Vimes sat up, water pouring off of him. There was a labored, pathetic noise behind him, reminiscent of a cross between a squeak and a squelch. His back went twang.

Oh, dear.

"I think I know where it is, Sybil."

"Oh, good! Where?"

"In my kidney."

Dear Mumm and Dade,

thinges arr goning stranjly in the Watch! The Particrian was resently shotte, and somme watchmen from, Al Khali came to Ankh-Morpork on hott pursute! Mister Vimes is, resently verry worried and, for just cauze I fere. There has been alot of, vandalisisism latly also. And women have been-

There was a knock on the door. Carrot looked up. "Yes?"

There was a pause. "Are you decent?" came Angua's voice.

Carrot set down his pencil. "Yes," he said. "Come in."

Angua opened the door carefully and stepped inside, closing it behind her. "How are you doing?" she asked, a bit embarrassed.

"I'm doing all right," said Carrot. "Is something wrong?"

"No-o... not as such," Angua said. "But I've got an odd feeling about all these... things happening lately."

"What sort of odd feeling?"

"I think they might be connected."

"What makes you say that?"

Angua sighed and sat down on the bed. "Call it women's intuition, I suppose. I just get the feeling that something isn't right here."

Carrot hesitated for a moment, thinking. "Well, it isn't right... the Patrician's been shot, and is nearly comatose."

"I mean besides that."

"Well, what do you mean then?"

Angua looked frustrated. "I don't know what I mean. It's just... this whole thing reeks of conspiracy. And when I say reeking, I know what I'm talking about."

Carrot smiled at her, and Angua's bitter mood softened. "I guess I've just been stressed lately," she said gently, looking at her hands.

"We all have been. It's all right."

"And all those damn new recruits... don't know an axe from a hamster, and that's a problem when somebody's just cut your legs off at the knee in the middle of a bar fight. Running around like headless chickens because someone's painted a few mild expletives on some wall somewhere. And it wasn't even that bad... just the same little girl snarkiness we've been finding everywhere lately. Grassroots feminism. It's crazy."

"Mister Vimes says that women are crazy and men are stupid."

Angua laughed, a little bitterly. "He's pretty much right."

There was silence for a second, and Carrot put his hand on Angua's shoulder.

She looked up at him and smiled a little, and they had the chance to be crazy and stupid together for a little while, in private where it was okay.

His life seemed to have turned into nothing but people knocking on his door, Vimes thought as he lathered up his chin and jaw. That and reports. At least people told him things these days. He tested the edge of the evil, shining razor on his thumb.

The sharpness was satisfactory, he decided, and, wincing, sucked the blood off of his fingers.

He couldn't get his mind off of the attempt on Vetinari's life. The man was practically comatose now, too... Dr Lawn hadn't been able to rustle up much by way of evidence of brain activity, and the Patricians pulse was weak, along with his breathing. The man had been shot before... what made this time any different? Why was he taking it so hard?

Maybe Vetinari was starting to lose his edge, Vimes thought as he carefully began to shave off the rough stubble on his left cheek. Maybe he'd been hurt by the last few attempts more than he let on. Maybe his body had just given up.

Vimes flicked a glob of foam and hair into the washbasin. "I doubt it," he muttered darkly, and brought the razor up to his face again.

"Doubt what, sir?" said Willikins from just outside the door.

Vimes jumped and nicked himself on the chin spinning to meet his imagined attacker. "Ye gods, man, don't do that!" he managed, setting the razor down very, very carefully and holding his fountaining chin.

"Do what, sir?"

"Sneak up on me like that!"

"Many apologies, sir," Willikins said woodenly, clicking his heels sharply together and snapping out a smug little servile bow. Vimes glowered. "If sir so pleases, there are visitors at the door. They require sir's immediate company. Shall I bring out your good boots, sir? It seems as though you may be needing them. If I may be so bold."

"I suppose you may," Vimes said, bemusedly searching about the countertop for a bit of tissue paper with which to daub at his cut. "But why the good boots?"

Willikins cleared his throat and looked suddenly nervous. "They're from the Palace Guard, sir," he said in a small voice. "I fear they may wish to detain you. Perhaps for quite some time."

Vimes stood stock-still in front of his washbasin, holding a bit of tissue to his chin.

So it had come to this, eh? A smile and a nod and if you'd just step along here with us, sir, we'd like to ask you a few questions to help us with our enquiries, eh? He'd always known the press was dangerous. They report and we decide, indeed... they report what they think and we decide whether we're going to believe them or, or... or if we're going to believe them. Gods dammit... the sheer stupidity of the public, he couldn't believe it.

"On whose authority?" he asked briskly, glaring at his butler.

"That's the problem, sir," Willikins said. "They have orders, sir. From the Lady Nils. Sealed with the Patrician's seal. It's official, sir."

Vimes turned back toward toward his shaving mirror and brought the razor back up. "Then they can wait, officially," he said in a cold voice. "And fetch Sybil, will you? I think she'll want to be here for this."

To Be Continued