Page 10 of 10
Chapter III
Patrick Thissel had had to drop out of Assassins School, literally, at midnight, from a fourth floor window, on a rope pursued by, well, assassins. His father, the former Lord Edgar Ravenswood had made what had suddenly, and terminally, turned out to be the wrong sort of friends. In such cases it was accepted practice –call it a charming old tradition if you will- to also eliminate any heirs, lest at some later time they should feel inclined to seek revenge. In truth Patrick a.k.a. Richard Ravenswood, had had about as much affection for his late father as for his last bout of Klatchian-deli belly. But he wasn't going to hang about to explain that to his pursuers, as he would likely find himself hanging about the walls of the Guild, by his neck.
No, he was much safer working behind the bar at The Duck and Run, though when he told people that they generally waited for the punchline. It wasn't technically in The Shades, but it was close enough to attract all the least-right sort of people. In fact the clientele of The Duck was all the people who'd been barred from everywhere else, including The Mended Drum and Biers. Oh, and Watchmen. And that was fine with Patrick, because that was how he'd got the job. The landlady, Cutthroat Kate, had told him that the perfect employee for The Duck was: anyone who was prepared to work in The Duck. Patrick rather liked it. It certainly attracted a better sort of person than The Guild School, because that was a place for the sons of gentlemen. And, to be fair, between them Kate and he had managed to terrify most of the patrons into being, if not civilised, then slightly less barbarous.
All of which made his friendship with Lance-Constable Smite even more peculiar. Everything had been odd about it from the moment of their first meeting. He'd been walking back from Harga's House of Ribs one night –he was prepared to do just about anything for Kate, except eat her food- when he came upon a mugging. Eight thugs were laying into one poor Omnian. Omnians were unmistakable, which was what made them such easy targets. Given the odds, the Omnian was actually defending himself rather well, but that's all he was doing. He was fending off the blows; he wasn't hitting them back. And then they had him down and were sticking the boot in. Still, it was none of Patrick's business. He had three-quarters turned away when something stopped him. Could it have been the prick of conscience? Nah! He'd been educated out of that at school. No, these lumps were removing his waste products. They were so inept that they'd offended his professional pride; they were as annoying as the flies –which there seemed to be a lot more of than usual- and then one of the thugs spotted him:
"Oi, what d'you fink your lookin at!?"
Patrick shrugged. He remembered thinking: "Oh, well, I could use the exercise."
The fight had lasted about twenty seconds. Three years' unarmed-combat training at The Assassins Guild against eight Morpork maulers was hardly a contest. He was so annoyed that he hadn't had a workout that he'd been tempted to take his frustration out on the hapless muggers when instead he did something he couldn't explain even now, even to himself. He picked up the Omnian and took him to Morpork Mercy.
There had been time; not that long before, when it would have been kinder to leave the poor devil in the street rather than take him to a hospital. Now though, with the advent of Igor doctors, Omnian nurses and generous endowments from the Vimes Foundation, hospitals in general – and Morpork Mercy in particular- were places of caring and cleanliness; and even healing
The green lamp was burning brightly over the door of Injury and Urgency when he got there and there was an Igor and a nurse waiting at the door with a gurney. He supposed that it was only natural that, what with his upbringing and all, he should be suspicious of people who wanted simply to take care of others. But he was suspicious of people who simply wanted to take care of other people.
They wheeled the patient into an examination room so that Igor could examine him and the nurse could ask a few preliminary questions:
"Is he a friend of yours," she asked.
"Nnnnn?"
"The patient; is he a friend?" she repeated
"I…No, he was attacked. I helped him."
"That was kind of you. Would you like to stay with him?"
"Er, yes. If I may."
"You are a very good man."
Patrick really didn't give a damn about the patient. The nurse whom he'd just met was simply the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life, by a factor of… beyond his ability to calculate. His brain felt like it was rattling around inside his head so that he could barely focus on Igor who had started to speak. Even when he did manage to focus on Igor's face, he wasn't sure he had. That was often the way with Igors.
"Hello, thur," said the doctor, waving his hand in front of Patrick's face, "are you there?"
"Oh, yes, sorry. How is he, doctor?"
"Well, thur, motht of hith woundth are thuperfithial and I don't think there are any broken boneth, but we'll know better when we get him to Ecth-ray."
"Who's Ecth-ray?"
"He'th an imp, he looks at boneth through the fleth and theeth if they're broken."
"He sounds very useful."
"He'th indithpenthible," Igor confirmed, "what'th you friend'th name?"
"I don't know," Patrick had to admit.
"I don't think he doth either," said Igor, "he hath concuthion, and a thlight cathe of amnethia. We'll be keeping him in, at leatht overnight. Jutht ath a precauthion, you underthtand?"
"Yes, of course, doctor."
Patrick had stopped listening. Behind him he could hear the nurse, correction, love of his life, talking to his new friend.
"Smite, can you hear me? It's me, Blister."
Patrick hadn't known much then about Omnian naming conventions. He knew a great deal more about them now, and he still thought they were bonkers. The most beautiful creature in creation was called: Blister the Eyes of the Doubters with the Brilliance of thy Faith.
Of course he went back the next day to visit his friend, who was insanely grateful. Omnians weren't used to the kindness of strangers, at least not ones who weren't fellow Omnians. Then again, who was? This made Patrick curious about his own small act of kindness. Luckily, though, Patrick's new friend's girlfriend was grateful too. And Nurse Shame's best friend's friend was Nurse Blister.
So, when Smite was discharged they stayed in touch. Patrick had never wasted a moment's thought on wondering if it was right to simply use people just get what he wanted, so he had no qualms about using Smite for his own selfish ends. And then, for almost untraceable reasons, he found he liked him.
It wasn't his straightforward honesty –though he did find that refreshing, when he discovered it was genuine- or his courage, loyalty, sense of honour… all qualities he's never before encountered in anyone; it was his absolutely deadpan sense of humour. They'd been meeting up for weeks and Patrick was beginning to suspect that perhaps he didn't have a sense of humour at all. Then one night they were in Harga's, on their customary stools, and he'd asked him about his day.
"Well," said Smite, "Cheery Littlebottom was a bit short with me, again…"
Patrick looked, very closely, but there wasn't a flicker in the eyes, no hint of a raised eyebrow or flicker of a smile.
"And Igor keeps looking at me in a funny way."
Patrick had frowned at that blank look, and then Smite had winked at him, and he knew he had a mate.
And there was another thing: he'd thought Omnians were forbidden to drink alcohol.
"Oh, no," said Smite, "we're not forbidden; we just don't."
"Are you yanking my chain?!" exclaimed Patrick "Are you seriously telling me you're allowed to drink alcohol; you just choose not to?"
"Yes."
"That's more insane than boiling people alive in a giant metal turtle!"
The very next night he had taken his friend to The Duck to introduce him to alcohol; at the far end of the bar.
"So, what'll it be?" asked Patrick, from his side of the bar.
"I have no idea," replied Smite, quite genuinely.
Patrick had to sympathise as he was at a bit of a loss himself. What on the Disc do you give someone for their first alcoholic drink?
"Right, baby steps. We'll start with a pint of ale."
"Oh, I couldn't drink a whole pint!" said Smite.
But that's exactly what he did, in one go. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth and said:
"Well, that was nice, but I can't see what all the fuss is about."
"Oooookay, hmmm," Patrick sort of said, "well, that's just one variety…"
"Oh, there's another? Perhaps I should try that too. I'm very open-minded."
"Are you, indeed?" said Patrick, assuming Smite was just at it again.
Over the next three hours Smite opened his mind to seventeen different ales, –two of which he had to revisit- ranging in alcohol level from four to ten percent, without being either up nor down. On a couple of occasions he'd attracted spectators.
"I think," reflected Smite, "that I may prefer that wheaty Swartzbergsteinbeir, you know, the one from Überwald, or possibly the more hoppy Oo Aar Garmy's Old Riggwelter, which I think is from the Ramtops. Perhaps I should try them both again, just to make sure."
"Don't you feel drunk at all?"
"I don't know, what does that feel like?"
"If you did, you'd know. Ok, let's look at a different approach."
"You know me."
"No, actually, mate, I really don't think I do. Here, try this."
"What is it?"
"Vodka, from Blüdivostock."
"Well, that doesn't taste of anything," said Smite after knocking back a generous measure.
"True," Patrick conceded, "try this, it's whisky."
"Yeeuch, that's horrible!"
"Should you ever encounter a Nac mac Feegle do not, under any circumstances, repeat that. Any affect?"
"None that I can feel."
"Well, that would kind of be the definition, wouldn't it?"
Smite gave him a look that made him laugh. The booze was clearly having some effect, however minimal.
"What about this?" he said, handing over a gin. Smite spat it out. "Ok, I'll give you that."
His opinions of other drinks were: brandy=better, rum=much better, scumble=now we're getting somewhere.
In the end there were only the two of them in the bar. Kate had cleared the pub and cleaned up around them. Patrick had broken up so many fights without breaking any bottles over anyone's heads that she figured she owed him at least a couple. He looked around the empty bar and decided he needed a drink himself. Patrick never, ever, ever, even once drank on duty, as his life might depend on it. Still, he thought he was probably safe with Lance-Constable Smite, because if he wasn't, then the whole concept of trust had no meaning.
He brought out a bottle of Chateau d'If 1789 from under the counter and showed it to Smite.
"What's that?" he asked.
"This, my friend," said Patrick, and paused for dramatic effect, "is wine." In spite of the delivery Smite appeared unimpressed, so Patrick continued:
"Made from the Mer-notmuch grapes on the slopes of Bored-Oh in Genua and aged in oak casks for twenty years…"
"Sounds nice," conceded Smite.
Nice?! thought Patrick, Nice, is it? I'll give you Nice, my lad!
This was a once in a lifetime experience and wasn't to be rushed. He uncorked the wine, smelled it to check the nothing tragic had happened, and he then took two glasses from under the bar. He warmed them over a candle and then poured wine into each and handed one to Smite.
"No, no," he said, as Smite made to gulp it the way he'd gulped everything else, "this is to be savoured. First you must inhale the aroma, get a bucketful, as they say in Genua."
Smite dutifully smelled the wine as he'd been instructed.
"Oh, that's nice."
Nice!? again, I'll Nice you, garçon!
"Now, be careful," said Patrick, "hold it in your mouth and savour it, and remember that the second taste is the true taste."
Again Smite did as he was bidden and managed:
"Dad id di mode boodibble fing…" Before he keeled over backwards and was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Patrick rather assumed that the cause was the cumulative effect of enough booze to kill two men rather than one mouthful of wine, but you never knew. And, on the bright side, though he didn't like to drink on his own, he couldn't let the wine go to waste. That would simply be wrong. Smite had been teaching him about "right" and "wrong" and "good" and "evil". He hadn't quite got it yet, but he was trying. He raised his glass towards the prostrate Smite.
"Santé," he said.