Chapter 5: The viewpoint of the albatross
Lord Rust sat in the Oblong Office. His office. He had been very particular about putting his personal mark on the place. A framed iconograph of the wife stood on the desk next to his ivory snuff box. He had brought his own chair, made of finest mahogany with inlays of tortoiseshell, and his waste paper basket, fashioned out of an elephant's foot. The horn of a rhinoceros served him as a paper weight. 1)
Removing all traces of his predecessor ought to have been easy. In fact, there wasn't anything to remove, unless one wanted to count Vetinari's pen. The room had been as impersonal as a street lamp. Within minutes, Rust had managed to make it look like Vetinari had never been there at all. And yet, there seemed to be no getting rid of him. Whenever Lord Rust was sitting at that desk, poring over the paper work, he felt as if a ghostly Vetinari was glancing over his shoulder, sneering. He ignored it, as he ignored everything that didn't fit with his view of the world, but the unnerving feeling soaked into his mind day after day and did nothing to improve his temper.
"Mr Drumknott!" he bellowed after scanning a document.
The clerk appeared swiftly. "Yes, my lord?"
"Why is there a complaint here about the number of seamstresses in Hide Park? This is a disgrace! I've had the Guild of Seamstresses banned! How could their numbers increase?"
As soon as he said it, Lord Rust knew that he had put his foot in. He shouldn't ask his secretary for advice. He was the Patrician after all. And Drumknott irritated him. The man was too smooth, too obliging. He never showed the slightest hint that he might consider the new Patrician inferior to the previous one, but in Rust's opinion this was almost a certain sign that the clerk was thinking exactly that.
Drumknott's face was completely neutral, as was his tone, when he replied:
"The Guild used to enforce quotas, my lord. Mrs Palm made sure that the presence of seamstresses in any part of the town remained unobtrusive. With the prohibition of the Guild, it looks as if things have got out of hand a bit."
"Are you implying that I should not have banned the Guild?" barked Rust.
"I wasn't implying anything, my lord. I was merely stating some facts."
"I am not interested in - well, of course I am interested in facts, but I shall be the one to decide which facts are relevant."
"Of course, my lord."
"Take all this away and file it," said Rust and thrust a bundle of paper at Drumknott to get rid of the man. He watched with relief as the clerk slid out of the room. If there was the faint echo of a snigger, he most emphatically didn't hear it. Vetinari was dead. As soon as the legally required period of time was over, he would have him declared dead and then - well, then what? An official new Patrician would be elected, and surely it would be him. Once the belittling attribute "acting" would be removed, he would fill his role perfectly, and there would be no more images of a smirking Vetinari floating about the room. Not that there were any now. Most definitely not.
Lord Rust had Plans. He would bring Ankh-Morpork back to its former glory. 2) Somehow or other he would find a way to teach Johnny Klatchian a lesson after all. And of course he would stem the tide of undesirable elements flooding into the city. Undesirable to Lord Rust was just about anybody who couldn't trace their ancestors back for at least twelve generations, but in particular trolls, the Undead and to a certain degree - because even Lord Rust had to admit they were hard-working and largely law-abiding citizens - dwarfs 3). He wasn't going to do anything drastic. A few extra taxes here and there seemed a perfectly reasonable measure. And he would ban non-humans from employment in the public services. Including the city watch. Vimes would just have to put up with it.
The tiny voice of reason in Ronald Rust's mind whispered that there was no way in hell Vimes would put up with it. True to his nature, Rust ignored it. e would bring Ankh-Morp
1) Lord Rust operated on the principle that curios were only worth the having if they seriously endangered at least one rare species.
2) Like most people using this kind of expression, Rust had only a very vague notion of what had constituted Ankh-Morpork's former glory. But it was clear to him that the past had to be better than the present time.
3) He also had the uncanny feeling that many dwarfs could trace their ancestors back much, much further than he could. That, of course, made them undesirable again, but in a different way.
oOoOo
They had shared the last tin of carrots. Vetinari was so weak now that he had struggled to open it. They chewed in silence, but eventually the moment came when they had to swallow, and then there was nothing left.
"I wish we hadn't wasted water on washing," said Angelina, "I smell like a cesspit now anyway."
"Yes, you've lost your advantage over Wuffles. Well, at least you don't look like a rabid hedgehog."
Vetinari's attempts at shaving with a dagger, but without soap, had not produced the desired results. It seemed of little importance now. Angelina nestled her head against his shoulder.
"What do you think will happen to us?" she asked.
He was silent and ran a finger down her cheek. The boat rolled gently in the current, carrying them ever rimwards. He didn't even know if they were anywhere near be Trobi, and their chances of landing on an island were getting slimmer by the hour.
"They say that when you die, you have to cross a cold, dark, sandy desert all by yourself," he said.
"And then what?"
"Who knows? I must confess that a sandy desert seems rather appealing to me at the moment. The prospect of crossing it alone used to have no terror for me. " He grinned. "But lately I have become accustomed to company."
This made her smile wanly.
"Well, maybe we can get a special license so we can go together."
Vetinari made no reply. If he had ever felt daunted by the prospect of being fifty with nobody to call next of kin, he didn't show it. In any case, being fifty and about to die together with your next of kin couldn't be considered an improvement. Angelina pulled herself up as best she could and scanned the horizon. The ocean was dazzling in the midday sunshine and continued to impress by a complete absence of any sign of dry land.
"I am really frightened," she said quietly. "Whoever of us dies first will have drawn the better lot, I think."
"Maybe it will rain again."
"Would you rather be swept over the Edge than die of thirst?"
"At least that would be a novel experience."
She chuckled and reflected on the astonishing fact that he could make her laugh even in the face of death. Gingerly she took his hand and held it against her cheek. She closed her eyes. Had it been worth it? Would she have chosen this over the life in her parents' house, so she could be with him for what seemed like a ridiculously short time now? It was maybe just as well that there wasn't a choice.
oOoOo
In his office at Pseudopolis Yard, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes was wrestling with the paper work. This had become a less odious task since A. had begun to scrutinize all incoming documents and arrange them in order of urgency with helpful notes attached. 4) Still, it was ultimately Vimes who had to read them and make decisions.
Currently he was scanning a report by Constable Visit about a dubious influx of Agatean gold coins. The diligent Omnian had traced them back to their source, a task that had been complicated by the fact that a Rhinu was not the kind of coin one spends all in one go. Fragments of Agatean gold had turned up all over the city. Vimes stared at the sheet for some time, trying not to focus too much on the hunch that something about the report was extremely important. If he fixed his mind on the thought, it would disappear. So he attempted to fool his brain into believing it didn't really matter. Eventually, he rose from his seat, opened the door and shouted for Carrot.
The captain appeared immediately and stood to attention like a suit of armour in a museum. Vimes waved his cigar in the air.
"Carrot, can you remember the name of the skipper of that boat Vetinari went on?"
This was a purely rhetorical question, since Carrot knew everybody, anywhere, by name.
"John Silver, sir, also known as Tall John."
"Would that be the same 'Jonathan Silver, formerly of Limonum', who has been spending gold Rhinus in the pubs as if he can grow them on trees?"
He thrust the report at Carrot, who took it and read it with a frown of concentration. Then the captain nodded slowly and handed the sheet back to Vimes.
"I see what you mean, sir. That looks decidedly fishy."
Vimes slammed a fist on his desk.
"I knew it! I knew Vetinari wouldn't just have an accident. Have this John Silver arrested. Suspected of conspiracy against the Patrician."
"I think you mean the former Patrician," corrected Carrot.
"I know exactly what I mean!" barked Vimes. "Just get me this Silver. If he knows anything at all, we'll find out. We're on the trail now, Carrot, let's hope it's not too cold yet. We'll get them! By the way, who organized the search parties?"
"Just the local fishermen initially, but I believe Lady Vetinari's brother was involved in it later."
"Henry Winter? I want him here in half an hour."
"I'll send Angua, sir." 5)
4) "Signature required only" was Vimes' favourite, but it was rare.
5) It was usually advisable to entrust Sergeant Angua with this type of errand, especially when younger men were involved.
Thirty-five minutes later, Vimes' hand connected with his desk again.
"If you thought there was something odd about the circumstances, why did you not follow it up?" he shouted.
Henry shrugged. "It was only what the paper said. They write a lot of rubbish."
"So it never occurred to you to ask the sailors for their account? What kind of fool are you?"
Vimes stubbed out his cigar with significantly more force than necessary. Then he calmed himself. Henry Winter was not a policeman. On the bloody contrary. Vimes thoroughly disliked Vetinari's wife, but this smug young assassin with his air of arrogant self-sufficiency was infinitely worse. Still, he couldn't be expected to have a copper's instincts. A harum-scarum airhead he might be, but a suspicious bastard he was clearly not. All the worse for him.
Henry watched the commander with an expression of mild amusement. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs.
"I am," he said coolly, "the kind of fool who pays three hundred dollars for a major search operation, which is more than anybody else found necessary to do. I saw no reason to distrust the sailors' word. All I asked of them was where, according to their nautical expertise, we would have to look for the boat."
Vimes scowled.
"Which gave them the perfect opportunity to send you into the wrong direction entirely?"
"I am afraid so. As I said, I suspected no foul play. Since the whole outing to Limonum had been so unexpected, I wouldn't have thought that anybody could plot such a thing."
"Even though you had noticed that the account of the events did not fit with your sister's character?"
"Well. Lina is not prone to screaming. She may not look like it, but she is a very practical and level-headed woman."
Vimes privately put that down to an appalling lack of clear judgement on Henry Winter's side.
"But as I already told you," continued Henry, "I had attributed this misrepresentation to the inaccuracy of the journalist."
And, thought Vimes, he talks like bloody Vetinari.
"You didn't want to find out the truth?" he growled.
"I wanted to find my sister and my brother-in-law. What exactly happened on the boat seemed of little importance."
Vimes ignored the casual way in which the younger man flaunted his relationship with Vetinari. He leaned forward in his chair and let both his fists rest on the desk.
"Let me congratulate you, Mr Winter. You have been invaluable in concentrating all search efforts in an area where they would almost certainly not be found. I hope this will be a comfort to you, should you never see your sister again."
"Commander Vimes," replied Henry, "I get the distinct impression that I am no longer Helping The Police With Their Inquiries, but am meanwhile on a kind of personal tribunal for an innocent mistake I made. I can assure you that I feel the loss of my sister very acutely. But let me point out to you again that apart from the random hunting around of a few fishermen, I instigated the only search effort that was made at all. If this case is so important to you, I wonder why you did not investigate it at the time. I have nothing else to tell you. Good day."
He got up and left, unhindered by Vimes. In the empty office, the commander buried his face in his fists. His rage against Henry Winter was slipping away, partly because he had seen tears well up in the assassin's eyes towards the end of their conversation. Mostly though it was being replaced by the familiar old rage against himself. Why had he not investigated it at the time? It had all seemed so plausible: The spontaneous boat trip, the storm, the hysterical wife - that last part of the story in particular, Vimes had been very happy to believe, with a grim satisfaction. It would have been bizarre indeed to think of anything other than an accident. Yet, thought Vimes, that was what suspicious bastards were for.
oOoOo
Take the viewpoint of the albatross. Watch the boat as it is carried along by the current. The black robe has been made into an improvised sun screen, under which the two figures are huddled together, their tattered clothes encrusted with salt. The woman's dark hair is plastered against her head and her lips are cracked and inflamed. Rampant stubble covers the man's face. They have been unconscious since the previous evening. Now the sun is slowly rising.
Watch the other boat approaching. Observe the group of small, dark men talking animatedly in their sing-song language. They bring their vessel alongside the stricken boat and peer over cautiously. Curious wooden contraptions are employed to attach the boats to each other. Two of the dark men climb over and heave the limp bodies into their own boat, the woman first, then the man. The wooden contraptions are released and the crew make for home. The abandoned boat drifts away with the current. Five days later it goes over the edge and disappears into space.