"A Matter of Advertising"
Vetinari meets an old friend. Machiavelli's fish and chips stand doesn't stand a chance.
PG for cruel and unusual treatment of canon and mimes. I own nothing. I only write what the nuzgul tell me to.
The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork did not look up from his paperwork as the other man entered. Drumknot made a brief announcement of the arrival, thankful that all the visitor gave him was a knowing smile. The pale, dark-eyed man settled himself opposite Vetinari, perusing a report on the trade of Klatchian goods as he made himself at home.
"The Ankh is especially fragrant this time of year, or so they tell me," he spoke from behind the document. The armor-clad man held it closer than usual. Whether this was simply from an ingrained habit to hide his thoughts or to compensate for weakening vision, Havelock could not tell. His friend would no more admit to a weakness than he would. Like Vetinari, he was also not above playing up a handicap when he could turn it to his advantage.
Still, it was a harsh reminder to Vetnari that they were no longer vigorous, idealistic young men, ready to improve and protect their cities, at least until their respective kings returned. There was little chance of that ever happening for either. Instead, Ankh-Morpork and her sister city had ended up with a pair of cynical old men to rule them. Damned effective cynical old men, he might add, and as devoted to their countries now as they had been as youths, but there was no denying that their physical strength was fading. Gray streaked the other man's dark hair.
"So it is," Vetinari replied as casually as the other had spoken. He put down his own report and looked the Gondorian straight in the eye. "What brings you here? Your youngest get lost in the library again?" Havelock respected his associate's methods deeply, but he feared that the Steward left himself too exposed with his family. His wife and elder son, especially. Vetinari firmly believed that such a deep love as he showed to them would only set the man up for tragedy. Besides, his wife wouldn't allow him to have a scorpion pit, even after Havelock had offered some of his best breeding stock. She had been afraid that the children would get into it.
"No, the family's fine. Just fine." Normally this fellow's acidic tongue cut straight to the heart of the matter. Whatever it was that had brought him here must be particularly upsetting, to leave him dodging the subject. "Your dog?"
Part of the reason that the Patrician enjoyed his visits with his friend was their ability to cut through the political niceties with one another. They had tested one another's limits early on, steely gray stare meeting carefully blank blue, but after these early tests of mettle, the Steward had dropped the game. It disappointed Havelock to see him return to this ineffectual armor, but if that was the way that he wished to play, Vetinari was a master of the game.
"We just had his new dentures implanted. Igor says that it may still take him a few days to get used to them, but he should be back to his old self in no time." The Gondorian's vague smile twitched. Doubtlessly he was remembering his last less-than-pleasant encounter with Wuffles, whose old self was hardly loving and friendly. The Patrician allowed himself two blind spots: his (truthfully exaggerated) phobia of mimes, and his elderly terrier. No expense was too great for the ball of thin, wiry fur and smell that could rival Foul Ole Ron. The Steward frowned upon it in the same manner that Havelock disapproved of his wife, but neither was likely to be able to change the other's mind, so they politely tolerated each other's little eccentricities.
The shifting gray eyes at last found sympathy and understanding in the Dog Botherer's icy blue. "How do you do it?" Vetinari offered him one of his lightning-quick smiles.
"I agree to their demands, and in return, they agree to mine." He knew the man did not speak of maintaining their countries.
"Aye, but it's a bit more difficult than a mere social arrangement. My sons need to be protected, as well. And what they do to my poor Finduilas..." He took his head into his hands, old sword callouses hard against that finely carved face. Vetinari counted himself lucky that for all that Mad Lord Snapcase had left him to sort out, all nearby demons had been left firmly in the hands of the wizards. The other fought more than trolls, orcs, and bureuacratic nonsense. The remains of his youthful inferiority complex made it painful for the Gondorian to admit that he was at his wit's end with the problem.
"They'll weather this out well enough. If you point your boys towards strong women, or better yet, have them follow the old Dog Botherer's example, most of this will slide off like water from a duck's back." He smiled sardonically at the hatefully bestowed nickname.
"And straight down the neck of the man beneath. You don't leave much of a future for your line, old man, nor would that method leave one for my own." He had turned to look out the window, making reference to a beggar wandering outside the palace.
"It is easier for me," Havelock admitted, steepling his long, narrow fingers. "The guilds manage themselves, and if they are perhaps not open to change, it is a simple matter to change their minds. I have had time to train my successor in running the city."
The Steward allowed himself a brief snort, mannerisms of his rough-and-tumble military days returning easily in the presence of his old friend. "You have had the time you could possibly require, but I have not yet met the man."
"Don't be so sure, Denethor," Vetinari chided, his eyes flickering to the anteroom where Drumknot was attempting to hold back an irate Vimes. No one was to disturb them while the Patrician met with his "friend from the library." The Gondorian looked at him askance, but let it slide without comment. They both had their secrets.
"Better luck to our heirs, then, with this infestation." Vetinari nodded in wordless agreement, and Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stood, moving toward the bookshelf. "I know I shouldn't have come; it exposes the city to too many weaknesses, but it is nice to see a place that is yet so unpolluted."
"That's a rare statement to be made about the Ankh." Havelock did not accompany him. Although he understood the mechanisms that linked the cities through L-space, that did not mean that he was particularly fond of the pathway.
"It contains many other things, Havelock, but it does not yet run with your blood, nor glitter. Be thankful for that." Vimes had observed that anyone meeting with the Patrician generally left with the impression that they had been lucky to escape with their limbs intact. For once, this feeling had been left to the Dog Botherer.