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Chapter XVIII
Patrick simply couldn't work out what was expected of him. He had defended not only the honour but, quite possibly, the life of his future wife from vicious, racist thugs and she hated him for it. So much so that she no longer wanted to be his wife. What was he supposed to have done, let them have her?
He'd had many love affairs before and whenever one of his lovers had decided to be awkward, in the hope of gaining some advantage in the game, he'd simply shrugged and moved on to another. And if it had been only Bliss's beauty that had drawn him, then he would have done the same now, but it wasn't. He was in love; completely, hopelessly and painfully, in love. And they hadn't even made love. She was stunningly beautiful, true, anybody could see that, and she was sweet and kind and caring –though that was partly to do with the job- but she was also witty and intelligent and could be crude and sarcastic and even cynical on occasions, like all nurses. And when she sang a sad song it could break a heart at a hundred paces. She was the only woman in the world for him, and she couldn't bear the sight of him. He now truly understood the meaning of the word "lovelorn". If it went on for much longer he'd end up writing poetry, or at least reading some. Clearly something had to be done.
He'd tried Smite first, his only male friend, and now drinking buddy.
"Come on, mate," said Patrick, over a dozen or so pints in Biers – The Duck would have been too much like being at work.
"I honestly don't know what I can do," said Smite morosely, draining his glass and calling for two more.
"Well, you could talk to Shame for me."
"Shame and I are no longer seeing each other," said Smite, staring into his glass, which was as empty as his life now felt.
"Oh," said Patrick, "I'm sorry to hear that.
As an Assassin, albeit not a fully-qualified one, Patrick was almost as honest with himself as a vampire was, so he knew that his professed sympathy for his friend's loss was really disappointment that he could be of no help in addressing his own. Still, the proprieties had to be observed:
"What happened?"
"She found someone else."
"Oh, who?"
"Igor," muttered Smite, miserably.
Now, Patrick would be the first to concede that his friend wasn't exactly a matinee idol like those that you might see at The Odium, but he wasn't ugly1, not like…
"Which Igor?" he managed to ask.
"That's what I said."
"And…?"
"She just smiled"
Igors had become famous across the Disc for their ability to please women in a certain way, at least among women. But he very much doubted that any Igor had been pleasing Shame, as she wasn't that kind of girl, so he couldn't see what the attraction was. It certainly wasn't going to be his looks.
Next he tried her parents, with no more success. To some extent even trying to reason with someone who believed in Om smacked of futility, but he really felt that he and Mr. Shivarananom had understood each other.
"I'm sorry son, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."
"But can't you reason with her?" Patrick pleaded.
"It wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Shivarananom, sadly, "when her mind is made up, then Brutha himself could hardly sway her."
"But I was only trying to protect her…"
"Oh, I know you were, but she has been a Daughter of the League against Violence since she was ten, and she has a will of steel."
"So, it's hopeless then?"
"Unfortunately, yes. And that's a shame; I was looking forward to having you as a son-in-law."
Patrick found it hard to interpret the look that accompanied this last remark, but he had a feeling it meant that things weren't quite as hopeless as he was making out.
After that his training kicked in "Negotiation Skills 101: If you cannot sway them by reason, then discover their weaknesses and exploit them".
It was a scheme so despicable that only an assassin could have come up with it. It stank so badly that, if it worked, then Bliss could never be allowed to find out about it, or she really would be entitled never to speak to him again.
Like all assassins, or at least all the ones who made it to graduation, he could detect the sweet scent of trouble over a considerable distance. Usually this sense was used for the purpose of avoiding it, but it could easily be turned the other way and so, each day after work, he went looking for trouble.
Trouble wasn't hard to find in Ankh-Morpork, and in The Shades he was almost jumping up and down in brightly-coloured clothes, blowing a whistle and waving a banner saying: I'M TROUBLE! But Patrick wasn't looking for just any old trouble, he had something more specific in mind.
He didn't try to interfere with any accredited Thieves or Assassins going about their lawful business, of course –though he would occasionally chase off some freelance muggers- no, he was only interested in Omnians being attacked, and it was easy enough to find them these days. It wasn't so much in the Omnian Quarter itself –cowards and bullies always like to do the outnumbering themselves- but in the streets adjoining it.
Typically he'd find some poor bugger being beaten-up and, just watch for a bit. Oh, he wouldn't let them actually get beaten to a pulp before he intervened, just to something a bit squishy; it was a matter of authenticity: you couldn't take someone to the Injury & Urgency Department unless they'd had a good battering. He made exceptions, naturally. He didn't actually allow any of the women to be raped, but he did, gods forgive him, allow them to be molested, roughed-up and have their clothes torn, before he kicked seven orders of ordure out of the perpetrators.
Then, the Spirit of Compassion that he was, he would sweep the victim up in his arms and bear them swiftly to Morpork Mercy, as if to have their injuries treated but, in reality, to make Blister upset and try to shame her into having him back. He began to wonder if what he was feeling was, for the first time in his life, guilt? Was that even possible?
Anyway, that was Act One: Setting the Scene. Act Two was Playing to the Gallery.
"I could have stopped all this," he would explain, plaintively, to whichever Igor was on duty that day/night, "but then I might have had to hit someone."
"Well, Thur," Dr. Igor would reply, "you would have thertainly have thpared him a great deal of thuffering."
Or on other occasions:
"At leatht you thaved her from a fate worth than thethation of life."
He thometimeth wondered if Igors deliberate chose words with "S"s in them jutht for effect.
He had to avoid talking to Bliss, or even catching her eye, but he would sometimes throw her a sideways glance to see if his plan was working; it wasn't. At least not initially. She would go about her business of ministering to the thricken -he was thtarting to feel the effects of all that time thpent in I&U- but she paid him no attention, even when he traipsed out morosely, sighing deeply, in search of another mark.
But then things started to change. He thought it might have been the sheer numbers, which had actually surprised even him, though he was accustomed to thinking the worst of everyone. Bliss wasn't always working in I&U, yet he still saw her at least once a day. You didn't have to look far these days to find some poor Omnian being put to the Question Extraordinary. However as, until the Reformation of Brutha, Omnians had been subject to centuries of torture for the slightest deviation from Thcripture –he was going to have to do thomething about thith- so they were used to pain and suffering –that's better- and simply accepted it as their lot. Therefore, unless someone was actually murdered, all these assaults never got reported. They just accepted their fate. Bliss must have known this was the case, yet her faith, like all faiths, blinded her to reality, but eventually it got to the point where she could no longer ignore it, or him.
He was dragging his sad feet out of I&U one night –having delivered another poor wretch into the hands of skilled Igors and gentle Omnians- when Bliss grabbed him by the arm. For such a slight figure she had a remarkably strong grip, probably to do with nursing, he supposed. She dragged him into a linen cupboard that smelt of starch and freshness and frowned at him more sternly than anyone had done since Nanny McPict, when he was seven.
"I know what you're doing," she said.
-I sincerely hope not- he thought.
"And I know that my people are suffering, but that doesn't mean I can condone violence. Did not Brutha say: To he who punches you in the mouth say 'kick me also in the scrotum'?"
"Well," said Patrick, "if he did he must have been smoking Gangaweed at time."
"Oh, Patrick," she wailed, "what you are doing is so admirable."
-It really, really isn't- he thought.
"But I can never accept violence."
"Listen, Bliss," he said, using the low, even tones that you should if you think you're winning the argument, "Bauxite guards the Nurses Home. What do you think he uses to persuade unwanted visitors from entering, strong language!?"
"I..I don't know, I've never thought about it."
"Well, it'll take him about a week to construct a sentence and half a second to throw a punch; have a guess."
"You think I'm being a hypocrite?" she asked, and Patrick for the first time sensed uncertainty in her voice.
"No, but I'm not sure you've thought through all the ramifications."
"But morality must be absolute, else it's not morality."
"I know! But there are degrees of wrong. Is it wrong for me to stop a man from killing a baby, even if the only way to stop him is to kill him?"
"Clearly much more research has to be done in this area," she mused.
Then she threw herself into his arms and kissed him with more passion than he thought it was possible to feel, never mind express. In fact, unlike their previous kiss, this was more like lust than passion. From then on clean sheets would always make his pulse race and remind him that, at some point, he was going to be made to pay for his sins.
1 He was an Omnian, after all.