Chapter Twelve

In which various parties go forth, according to plan, and Vetinari goes mad, less so

CABLE STREET STATION REPORT ON SUSPECT #1618: GABRIEL VON DHAMPYR

Date of birth: Grune 17th, Year of the Unexpected Penguin, some time before 4:00 in the morning

Time of undeath: May 1st, Year of the Aerial Pig, 9:36

Height: Unknown. Probably in the seven foot range.

Weight: Unknown.

Hair: Black

Eyes: Black

Full Name: Gabriel Maladictus Augustus Octavinto Pygmalion this goes on for sixteen pages? Bugger that, whoever finds this tell Andre I'm going for a walk (in a different hand) von Dhampyr (sorry, sir, she fed the list to her dog)

Father: Gabriel von Dhampyr

Mother: Buffy von Dhampyr

Notes: Wizard, or maybe ex-wizard - as yet unknown how vampirism affects magical ability, but it is believed to, if anything, accentuate certain powers, especially those of sensory perception. Names inherited from his 'killer', who has been officially staked as of last Spindlewinter. Born and raised in Uberwald (Dhampyr Forest). Ironically, had no trouble with vampires until he arrived in Ankh-Morpork, where he was immediately attacked because he was recognized as having originated from a family of Vampire Slayers away from their source of power (Dhampyr Forest). Apparently they were really good at improvised stakes.

Dhampyr went to the Temperance League immediately after his turning, but during his 'cold bat' period had an unsuccessful transfer and went insane. Escaped in the ensuing confusion from the 'specialists' who had had stakes at ready and flew back to his homeland, where he proceeded to kill the rest of his surviving family (we're not sure why) and almost half a village nearby. Has since disappeared.

And even if we found him he'd be out of our jurisdiction, Mister Vimes, so stop looking like that.

"Vampire slayers?" said Carrot.

"Unthuctheththful tranthferth?" said Igor, with an expression of bliss on his face, insofar as it was possible to tell. The others backed away a little.

And, of course...

"Buffy?" said Angua.

Sally looked at the three questioning faces and sighed. "Yes, vampire slayers. It's traditional, in some areas, for a man who managed to stake one once to pass the... trade... on to his children. Eventually the system reached the point where slayers got regular pay and pensions. Steady business, too, 'cos the vampires are always up again by the time the villagers start getting restive about spending so much on this man who isn't even doing anything for them now."

"Unthuctheth-" Igor began, but was hurriedly cut off.

"I'm not an expert. Try Otto Chriek. But you know how the craving transference works, yes?"

"Bathically."

"It can be... perverted? I dunno. Anyway they end up craving almost... everything, and of course they go mad after that."

"Hmm," muttered Igor.

"And," Sally said, before Angua could open her mouth, "Buffy was the founder of the von Dhampyr line of vampire slayers. They were unusual because most of them were female, as their founder's name suggests."

"Huh," said Angua. "He didn't sympathize with his ancestor's decision once he'd seen things from the other guy's point of view?"

"Maybe. But that doesn't really matter, does it? A wizard vampire. What on the Disc are we going to do?"

"We don't know it's him."

"No, we don't," Carrot interjected. "So I think we'd be well-advised to put that particular line of questioning on hold for a while, and direct our attentions to the Alchemists' Guild."

"The alchemists? You really think they have anything to do with it?"

"Where else would he get those chemicals that Igor listed? Are they common ones, Igor?"

"No, thur. Not the stuff you could get at the pharmathy."

"I didn't think so. He - they - must have been to the Guild. They might have stolen what they needed, or they might have gotten the alchemists in on it, somehow, but they were there, one way or another. We'll see what we can find."

"Yessir," said the sergeant and the constable. The three went forth, leaving Igor all alone with his patient.

---

It is traditional for the masterminds(a) of an evil plan to remain at their secret headquarters and plot, while relying on their incompetent sidekicks to do the actual work. If there is more than one mastermind in on an individual plan, then they are, by necessity, to cluster together around the big, important, device/person/spell/man-eating lizard that is central to their plan, lest the hero have any kind of issue finding his intended victims and getting rid of them.

Neither the lady or the Lord was much for tradition. It followed logically, then, that Louisa made sure that most of the work was done by herself or the Lord, and things they could not do, like the alchemy, were tested upon completion. The potion, for instance, they'd fed to the alchemist who had been with them from Pseudopolis and had been showing signs of restiveness; poetic irony appealed to Louisa's artistic soul, and anyway he had been thinking of blackmail, according to the Lord, so he deserved it. And what he'd gotten after they'd verified that the symptoms were correct, too, although it had been a little messy and the maids no doubt would have a job getting the stains out of the woodwork.

Still, she would admit that she was, at the moment, hanging around the concoction central to their plan. But she would have been doing so even if it hadn't been Traditional.

Something occurred to her. She examined her nails for a moment, turning the idea over in her mind, and then climbed the stairs to a room that was technically a basement, as opposed to a cellar.

He was feeding on something small and squeaky, which was making unpleasant gurgling noises in his hand. She winced delicately and cleared her throat.

Pause. The gurgling stopped, and when she looked up his hand was empty. She didn't wonder where he'd put the thing, because wondering like that was wont to give her bad dreams in the night.

"My lord, when will you be disposing of Vetinari?"

"Soon, no doubt."

"When?"

"You are impatient, my dear?"

"Obviously. I must admit I am curious as to what his... reaction will be."

"As well you should be."

"And," Louisa continued, "it would be just as well, would it not, for me to be arrested while you are out?"

"I suppose. Especially as that girl, Sally, will be with them. I haven't truly fed for some time; that alchemist tasted insipid. I am weak."

"Quite. Why not kill two birds if you have two stones available?"

"I will go."

"Thank you, my lord."

He waved an impatient hand, and she retreated back downwards, not anxious to be treated to another glimpse of whatever unfortunate rodent he was consuming.

Madam looked... curiously alert, but she was still silent and standing in the corner, so Louisa assumed that, for now, all was well. She went about her business and poured the contents of the cauldron into a flask for the Lord. She watched him go.

She waited.

(a) The Super Villains, the Archenemies, the Head Honchos, etc. They have been called many names, but universal to them is a tendency to cackle and wear dress-like garments. This, sadly for all budding heroes, is not enough to identify them with, since it also is true of most of the fairer sex past the age of 60, once compounded with a sufficient amount of gin.(b)

(b) Although there are many who argue that members of the fairer sex over the age of 60 and compounded with a sufficient amount of gin are, by definition, Super Villains.

---

Gabriel glided just below the clouds that hung over the city(a). He did not think in the same way that other people thought, and neither did he feel in the same way that other people felt, but he was aware of a slight prickling in his gut, as of a premonition.

He ignored it, and flew faster.

Some people talk about the wonder that a vampire must experience as they float, weightless, above the rest of the world. Their description is entirely inaccurate. Vampires experience no joy in flight, because for them it feels mundane, earthly, and dead. They know, intellectually, how wonderful it is and must seem to humanity, but that is all.

Really, most things feel mundane, and earthly, and dead for vampires. Almost everything that doesn't involve blood, for instance. Gabriel had it worse than most, for... various reasons.

Beneath him, the Patrician's Palace rose up slightly above the architecture surrounding it. He descended in elegant circles, eyes fixed on one of the windows, which was open.

(a) Permanently. It is a curious truth that, even on its sunny days, Ankh-Morpork is overhung by a fine layer of cloud that darkens the blue sky and makes everything slightly hazy, and the only real variation in Ankh-Morpork's weather is the solidity of the fog, ranging from barely extant - said 'sunny' days - to extremely extant - downpours, deluges, and blizzards. From a mapmaker's perspective, it makes the whole concept of 'birds' eye view' difficult, especially under the literary constraints instated by Quimby. From the height necessary to see a complete map of the city, a bird would be blinded (and probably choked) by a thin layer of brown smog, while any higher the city would just be a brown smear of a shape familiar to anyone who's ever ventured behind a Klatchian Take-out Bar on a bad night.

---

Igor turned around at the noise. His eyes bugged out of his head, but only slightly and in an anatomically possible(a) fashion.

Vimes, who was standing up, gave him a rather dry look. "As you were, Constable."

"Thur! What are you - what -"

"I'm sorry, Igor, I have places to be, things to do, people to hit. I really can't stay to chat."

He ignored the composite man's protests. He left.

In the streets, he took a moment to inhale a breath of air, paused, and shuddered. And he headed towards the Palace.

(a) Well, anatomically possible for Igors, anyway.

---

The window of the Oblong Office is always open.

It is one of the many idiosyncracies of Lord Havelock Vetinari. Nobody, of course, comments on it, but most notice it. Especially in winter, because he also refused to light the fire in his grate or even send his ink down to the kitchen to be melted(a).

There were a few theories, although not nearly as many as there were theories concerning other areas of the Patrician's life and lifestyle. Hughnon Ridcully occasionally thought the man is doing it to test the physical stamina of his visitors as well as the mental, which is a given; Sir Samuel Vimes suspected that he is simply unable to shut it because excessive amounts of paint have been applied to the frame.

The Patrician himself would have told anyone who asked that he enjoyed the brisk fresh air.

Because of all of the above and the resultant haze of suspicion that naturally accompanies an open window, Gabriel entered through the front grate, claws drawn in, wings folded neatly over his shoulders, looking entirely the somberly-dressed gentlemen. He passed through with no trouble, and was, importantly, ushered - invited - in by the guards.

He ascended the stairs unimpeded, and, when he arrived at the top level, calmly made Drumknott realize how perfectly normal it was for this man to be here at this time.

He opened the door and went into the office.

The second time someone had burst into his office without announcement this week, thought Lord Vetinari. And it's only Tuesday.

"Von Dhampyr, I believe," he said, looking up at the intruder.

"Expecting me?" said the vampire smoothly, gliding in.

"You could say that. And her ladyship?"

"Not here," said Gabriel. "She must be satisfied with a second-hand account of...events."

"How uncharacteristic of her."

"Yes, I was surprised, too." He drew back his wings and, matter-of-factly, pulled out the syringe.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"What? No manipulation? No attempts to talk me out of it? I am disappointed, Your Lordship."

"Alas, I find myself at a loss, Mr. Dhampyr. I am... empty-handed."

"Oh?" He looked disappointed. "What a pity. I was hoping for a more interesting encounter, my lord. Extend your arm, please, save time."

The man smiled, and rolled up his sleeve, and then the prickling in his gut became a fully-fledged set of butterflies, such as he hadn't felt since he'd escaped the Ribboners.

But Gabriel was practiced at ignoring such emotions. Nervousness was natural, probably, if anything was natural at this point. Perhaps Vetinari was in shock; perhaps that was why he was standing and smiling.

Almost gently, he pushed the needle into the main artery at the wrist, watching the man's eyes. When all the green liquid had been injected into his blood stream, he pulled it out.

He returned the now empty syringe to its place and regarded Vetinari curiously, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Any minute now.

Any... minute... now...

Silence. Vetinari shrugged and moved back to his desk, where he sat down and began working on some paperwork. Gabriel kept his eyes on him, but felt, for the first time, doubt creeping into his mind.

"The potion works. Why isn't it affecting you?" he said, keeping the hiss out of his voice.

"I believe," said Vetinari, lightly, "that the term is 'already mad'."

"Already mad? You?"

"Quite. Or extremely sane."

"That doesn't explain -"

Then his attention was distracted, because another heartbeat was approaching. He whirled around.

"You know, Vetinari," said Vimes, "that explains so much about you that it's not even funny."

The vampire looked from him back to the inexplicably sane (whatever he said) Patrician. "This is impossible."

"Is it?" said Vetinari. "As far as I understand it, we both are mad."

"Yep," Vimes agreed. "Very, very much so."

"But you aren't," he said, with increasing... apprehension. "The potion - it - it's supposed to turn you back to your deepest, darkest selves, a thousandfold. You," he snapped, pointing at the Commander, "are supposed to become a violent, mindless beast. Everything I found suggested it! It should have -"

"Oh, so that's it," said Vimes. "Well, I'm sure your predictions were lovely, but what actually happened was I went knurd. Completely. You bastard," he added, as an afterthought.

Vetinari looked blank as Gabriel whirled on him. "This is ridiculous! It does not happen like this. It cannot happen like this."

"Picky, picky," said Vimes, unimpressed.

"And you, Lord Vetinari? How is this your true nature?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" said Vetinari, evenly. "What else, exactly, would my 'true nature' be?"

Louisa would make this better, Gabriel thought, with the mad certainty that comes to the frantic. That was what she was meant to do. How could he feed on these, these persistently rational humans?

"You will go, and I will follow," he said, shortly. "We are going to the Watch House." I'll be able to face a mere slip of a girl, he reassured himself, fresh blood or no.

"Or?" said Vetinari, sounding genuinely curious.

"On pain of pain," said the vampire.

"You have to admit," said Vimes, "he's succinct."

So, on pain of pain, they went.

(a) Except for the notable occasion in the winter of the Year of the Befuddled Sparrow, when Drumknott insisted, because he'd just seen Vetinari taking out one of his Special Knives and beginning to saw a tiny hole in the top layer of frozen ink for better access.