Rating's PG for a reason: Boromir, Faramir, and Samuel get under your skin and won't leave Denethor and Havelock in peace...
A/N: Tolkien's is Tolkien's, Terry's is Terry's, and mine is nothing. The mirian is the typical "dollar" of Gondorian currency: a golden coin worth four silver canath, according to "The Peoples of Middle-earth." How many AMD it's worth is beyond me.
Vetinari relaxed in an austere armchair, watching the two gangly boys sprawled before the fire. He usually did not worry much about his seating arrangements, but he had decided that his aging body could afford the excess comfort of a wooden armchair, after what he had put it through today. He had sent them running all over the city, and yet the teenagers still had enough energy to take up a playful, desultory argument concerning their findings today. The elder boy, already as tall as his father and built like a young ox, groaned and pushed his little brother away when a bony elbow dug into his back. "Don't start, Fari. 'M exhausted," he told the twelve-year old.
"Just admit it, Boromir. You like it here." The younger boy poked him again until his brother caught the finger in a large hand.
"Ankh-Morpork is a bitch," the seventeen-year-old quoted Vimes. "It smells, the noise is awful, and the sanitation would make an orc complain. I'd much rather be back at the garrison."
"But you like the people. And you keep planning ways to improve the city whenever you look at it, I know." Boromir rolled over and gave his brother a look, but Vetinari had already noticed the same urges to improve everything around him within the elder boy. He did have his father's drive, even if the heir apparent lacked Denethor's insight into the human psyche.
"Well, you do have to admit that this place is hardly defensible. The gates are rusted open, the water's unfit for drinking, and you could practically march an army atop the Ankh into anywhere you liked in the city." He gave his guardian an injured glance, as if blaming Vetinari personally for hundreds of years' worth of shoddy Ankh-Morpork construction.
"Ah, but we have one major weapon in our arsenal that our sister city lacks," Vetinari, proud Morporkian, spoke up. "Our enemies require money, and the Ankh-Morpork dollar reigns surpreme."
Boromir grunted. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could buy off Sauron for a few mirian?"
"Aye, it would." Lying next to his older brother, Faramir's smile twisted as he stared up at the ceiling, hands resting beneath his head. Vetinari had to agree as well. While he was sorely out of shape when it came to keeping up with his friend's sons during their visit to Ankh-Morpork, it concerned the Patrician that Denethor was also no longer able to keep pace with his sons. The inevitable had happened to Lady Finduilas, and the Steward seemed to have lost all energy with his wife's death. Already Boromir had seen his first battle, and within the year Faramir would be joining the ranks as well. It wouldn't take Detritus's thinking helmet to know how close to the edge the Gondorian was.
Lazily, Boromir poked at the fire, stirring a brighter blaze from the dying coals with his swordpoint. "Uncle Havvie?" the younger boyasked.
"Yes, Faramir?" The boy was more intelligent than his brother, but the younger son of Denethor had always seemed content to follow, making it hard to judge just how much he really knew about a situation.
"Why do we always come here to Ankh-Morpork? How come you never visit us?" An innocent question, but pointed nonetheless. If he had not dealt with Captain Carrot, Vetinari was not sure that he would have been able to handle the boy. No wonder Denethor often found himself at wit's end when dealing with his younger child.
He considered a simpler answer, but honesty tended to be the best policy with Faramir. The boy could smell a lie, and given Boromir's encouragement, he would ferret shamelessly for the truth. "You two are Denethor's heirs. We cannot guarantee your saftey. However, there are measures that we might take to better protect you," Vetinari answered seriously. "These measures are most easily carried out in Ankh-Morpork."
Boromir had developed a wide array of snorts of discorn, which Havelock was going to have to train out of him before the heir got any further in his diplomatic grooming. Having Vimes around to frighten the nobles was one thing, but a ruler could hardly afford to be seen as stubborn and uncouth. "Perhaps it protects us, but what about my troops? What about Minas Tirith? Are our people protected by your Assassin's Guild? I think not." The boy – now a young man, really, - had his mother's deep-rooted patriotism, but whereas it had sapped Finduilas of her will to live, the fiery devotion for his homeland made Boromir seem more alive. He spoke about Gondor and its people with the same passion that most boys his age would reserve for a childhood sweetheart. He was seventeen, a foot soldier of little rank, and already they were "his" troops. Given the weapon-skills to match his ardor, there would be few armies that would be able to stand a chance against Boromir son of Denethor.
"How safe would the city be without her Steward, Boromir? There are other places one may lead than from the front of a suicidal charge." Vetinari raised an eyebrow, and Boromir returned to poking the fire. Faramir observed their exchange silently.
During the lull in conversation, Havelock returned to his neglected paperwork, and circumspectly, to his overtaxed joints. He had not covered so much of the city by foot since his days in the Assassin's Guild, but it had been worth it. Boromir and Faramir were ostenibly here as diplomatic observers, so it was best that they get some actual training in.
Discretely chauffering the two boys about the city had given Vetinari a chance to observe as well. Boromir, for all his genuine desire to improve his surroundings, was best left in Gondor. The boy was too blunt, too headstrong, and just simply too in love with his country to see another's point of view. He would be dependent on Faramir for diplomatic issues, but at least this dependency would give the younger brother a solid position in the next regime. Even with family members who wanted what was best for you, it was always a good idea not to let the smart ones get bored, Havelock reflected. He would hate to think of what trouble his aunt would have gotten into without the Genua business to keep her occupied.
Leaving his brother to sulk for a moment, Faramir stretched and sidled over towards Vetinari's chair. Out of habit, the Patrician adjusted the top sheet so that it could not be read from upside down. Denethor's sons might be allowed certain privileges, but the boys were not prepared for every aspect of running a city just yet. At this point, it was best to still treat them as he would any other potential protégé: give them just enough of a glance to gain their attention and make them find the rest out for themselves. "We weren't out on our own today, were we?" Faramir asked softly, so that his voice would not carry to his brother. Havelock gave him a mild glance, displaying neither amusment nor surprise. The boy had the audacity to wink at him. The Patrician would have plenty to recount back to Denethor when the Steward asked for his sons' reports.