Chapter Fourteen

In which the loose ends are, theoretically, snipped, tied, ripped out, or, at worst, merely shoved in the corner so that the guests won't see them

Typically, the Patrician was the one who broke the silence.

He prodded the ashes delicately with his cane, glanced out the window at the proper, wintry fog that was pouring down the streets at unusually high speeds, and said

"Psychotropics in the city? I suppose it must have been the excess power he was injecting into our already abnormally high thaumic field."

Almost as soon as the man began to speak, there was a subtle change in the air. Vimes, who had been as tense as a very tense thing, felt his muscles relax so suddenly it was painful. More importantly for him, however, Vimes felt the pink haze of inebriation start filtering through his brain. His thoughts were slowing down to a pace that was practically coherent, give or take a few drinks.

He frowned. "What's happening?"

"I believe," said Vetinari, "that without the, ah, active ingredient of Dhampyr's magic the potion is no longer in effect." Something seemed to occur to him. A look that was almost recognizable as worry passed over his face, and he excused himself, rather hastily, and slipped out into the hallway.

"Good to know," said Vimes, to no one in particular.

Then he saw Louisa.

She was getting up slowly on trembling legs, and staring around the room. There was something dark and furious in her wide, milky blue eyes.

"You," she said, almost inaudibly. She was staring at the ashes. "You. I could have had the power - the city at my feet," her voice was climbing in volume, inexorably, "and then the world! - but foryou and your games. Hunger! You know nothing of hunger! You were just a petty thief, a parasite living on the edges of things, but I, I COULD HAVE BEEN -" she screamed, and then whirled around to face Vimes, who was holding handcuffs he'd grabbed off Carrot in one hand and about to hit her over the head with a truncheon held in the other. "Don't come any nearer! I've got a stake!"

She did indeed have a stake. He came nearer anyway, however, because what she did nothave were the necessary reflexes to kill a practiced Watchman before he could finish bringing the big stick down on her head.

She crumpled to the ground with a little "oh" of pain. Vimes rapped her fingers once. They uncurled. He picked up the stake, hooked it to his belt in case they had another sudden attack of the mad vampire wizards, and handcuffed the girl.

Well, that was that.

During this little drama, in a way consistent with Vetinari's inference, Angua had opened clear and lucid eyes and was trying to get up. Carrot hurriedly went over to her side - and, yes, the magic there was gone too. So Vimes decided they could all probably take care of themselves for a moment, and went instead to carefully pry the axe out of Sally's clenched fist. There was a black, sooty mark where the handle had been, contrasting sharply with her pale palm, and a faint scent of burning meat hung around her.

"Sorry about that, Constable. And... thank you," he said, quietly.

"What was that? I - I've never - it bit me!"

"I kind of gathered. Uh. Look, cutting the head off isn't enough for vampires, right? You need, like, a holy symbol as well, or garlic, or some such."

She gave a nervous look. "Am I well-advised to be telling you this? Be honest."

He paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, abruptly, started to laugh. She blinked at him. Eventually, he subsided, caught her expression, and put his head in his hands.

"Excuse me, Sally, I think I'm a bit overwrought, haha. It's fine, I'm not going to kill you. Not at this very moment, anyway. All right?"

"Just checking," she said, looking relieved. "Yes. That is, yes, you need something else fatal as well as the axe. That's why I don't understand -"

Vimes held up a hand and went rummaging through his pockets for a few minutes. "Here it is," he said finally, holding up a rather battered pamphlet. "Under the recent amendment made by the Really Quite Amazingly Revered Oats, er, the axe is considered a holy symbol of Om."

Sally looked genuinely shocked. "You kept one of the pamphlets?"

"I grabbed it on my way out of here, actually. Give me a break, I was mad at the time."

"Obviously," she said, smirking, though she added prudently "...sir. Are you still?"

"What? Oh. No. Probably not, anyway. No madder than the next man."

"The next man's Carrot, sir."

"Damn."

"I guess that's as good as it'll get for us, Mister Vimes." She hesitated and stared at her open palm. Eventually, she said, without meeting his eyes,

"Couldn't you at least have given me warning?"

"No," he said frankly. "Not really. What, should I have shouted "Hey, Sally, heads up, I'm going to toss you an axe so that you can cut Dhampyr's head off because you're the only person who could possibly resist his bloody magic enough to do so but look out, it's a holy symbol I'm throwing at you!" and hoped the bastard would ignore it?"

"Well, it would have been helpful."

"For you, maybe. You're undead."

"So was he," she said, soberly.

"That he was."

"Can you give me a hand, sir?" said Carrot, breaking into their twin reveries. "She isn't feeling very well."

"Understatement," Vimes muttered and went over to help the Captain. Sally stood perfectly still, watching the curiously mundane scene from one side.

Was that it, then? The end of the show?

The door opened, and Lady Sybil entered. "Samuel Vimes," she said, regally, "hwhat is the meaning of this?"

Or not, thought Sally, grinning.

Vimes looked suddenly shifty. "Er," he said.

"You barge in, after a day of being supposedly insensible and mad, I might add, and instead of going up to say so much as hello like a decent person, you dash into the Shockingly Disquieting Yellow drawing room, grab the axe that the Low King gave to you, and disappear!" she continued, ignoring the fact that everyone in the room was staring at her. "Really, Sam, I want an explanation and I want it now."

"I had to solve a tricky case, dear," said Vimes helplessly, dismissing with a gesture the ashes lying on the floor and the unconscious woman and so forth as 'a tricky case'.

"Hmm," said Sybil as she took in the scene. "Well. It's all fixed up now, is it?"

"Not really, there's paperwork and Lady Louisa to deal with -"

"I'm sure Carrot can handle it. You are coming home. Now," she added, firmly, and steered him out of the cell by the shoulders. His vague protests echoed through the hall for some time.

Angua made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh. Sally didn't bother to hide it. Carrot looked disapprovingly at them, and then went and got a jar(a) to gather up the ashes with.

(a) For which purpose he did not stop by Igor's cell, despite the plentitude of glassware that could be found there. No, to get a jar he went up the stairs, down the stairs, out of the Yard, crossed the street, made a left turn, and ended up several streets away at Millicent's Boringg Galss Thyngs, because at least they wouldn't suddenly turn into cucumbers, as Igor's were wont to do.

---

Madam was waiting patiently when Havelock came to open the cell door, and she had had some time to think.

"You could have just told me, you know," she said.

"I was not positive as to whether my inference was correct," said Vetinari, calmly. "And if I had been wrong who knows how much time you would have spent investigating the matter? Besides it would have been a waste of such talent as Louisa has if you squelched it on the basis of an unfounded supposition."

"And sending me on a wild goose chase was helpful because..."

"Not a wild goose chase," he corrected her. "No doubt if you ask Vimes in private he'll be more revealing. Or, then again, possibly not."

She raised an eyebrow. Something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but within a fraction of a second he was all business. "And if I had left you to simply enjoy your trip, who knows what you would have found?"

"It would have saved you time and effort if I had discovered her little scheme."

"Possibly. It might also have led to your quick and violent murder by the vampire, the prospect of which I must admit I find distasteful."

"But I met him anyway," Madam pointed out.

"When Louisa was lulled into a sense of security about the possibility of any threat you might provide, yes."

She sighed. "I begin to remember why I moved to Pseudopolis in the first place."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"This from a man who once tried to convince me to allow myself to become dragon-bait?"

"As I recall you were already living in Pseudopolis at the time, Madam."

She gave him a dry look. "Quite so. And entertaining as this visit has been, I believe I will be returning there soon."

"Of course. Will you be calling on Vimes? I should probably warn Lady Sybil, if so." He looked less than pleased at the idea.

"No, I don't believe so," said Madam, thoughtfully. "It's enough to have my suspicions."

"Ah? Then do stop by before you leave. A game of Thud, perhaps?"

"Certainly not. You've been practicing against that charming Lady Margolotta, have you not? Whereas..."

"...you haven't played for years? Come now, Madam. For old times' sake?"

"When on the Disc did we play Thud together?"

"We never did," he admitted. "You did like to trounce me at chess, though, which was unfair considering that you are almost two decades older than me."

"I was merely enjoying winning against you while I had the opportunity, Havelock. And I will be there," said Madam, smiling.

Then aunt and nephew went their separate ways, and Madam, for old times' sake, did not mention that she played Thud every day in Pseudopolis against Mr. Slant of Ankh-Morpork and incidentally used it as an opportunity to practice her ciphering skills. The way she saw it, he probably already knew, and if he did not - well, we live and we learn.

---

It was arranged for Louisa to be sent to a heavy duty Asylum for Lost Souls, because Vimes had a vindictive streak, and, well, she was obviously mad. Talking about becoming Patrician? Mad wizard vampires? Who would believe that sort of thing? And in the meantime, Sally and Angua speculated that she had genuinely been in love with Dhampyr. Their superior officers studiously tried not to think about it and also to block out the giggles.

The alchemists who had been involved were rounded up later that afternoon, and came quietly enough, and the coachman was recovered enough to be brought to the Yard as well. From the little group, the Watchmen learned the facts, which were as follows:

The solution was inflammable, so in all probability Vimes' lit cigar was to blame for his current state of desk-less-ness. (Vimes looked pointedly blank at this.)

The whole mysterious business with the coach could be explained by the simple fact that the coachman had heard someone get in, and that in all likelihood it had been Dhampyr.

Louisa had never gotten into the coach at all, because she had been aware that Vetinari was suspicious about the Pseudopolis party already and preferred to, instead of trying to alleviate the suspicion, which she knew rarely worked, transfer it to Jamie by way of an extremely mysterious mystery.

According to the alchemists, she seemed just a little bit panicked as she did so, and Dhampyr had not been pleased with her at the time. They (and she) could tell by the way he ran a single claw down the back of her neck occasionally.

When they had gathered all the information from the suspects that seemed likely to be forthcoming, Commander Vimes told Carrot to let them stay in the cells for the night and then send them home, as it was a clear case of Coercion. Or something.

Since the case was closed, he also felt no qualms about handing the jar of ashes over to Vetinari upon request. This may or may not have been unwise, all things considered. Afterwards, though, everything was back to what passed for normal, in the Watch.

No. Wait.

When Angua found Cheery rummaging frantically through her closet, searching for a dress, then everything was back to normal in the Watch.

---

"...a dark and stormy night..." said a cool, precise voice, in dark and echoing passages in the heart of the Palace. There was a pause, an intake of breath, and a thud as might be made by someone jumping.

Vetinari, you see, had other things to be worried about besides the wrath of his Aunt.

In one hand, he was carrying a sphere full of viscous fluid.

He arrived at Leonard's door and opened it, cautiously. His caution was justified when a burnt piece of dwarf bread came flying by and almost decapitated him.

"Perhaps a less tightly-coiled spring?" said a familiar voice. "Oh, hello, my lord, do come in."

The Patrician did so. "Something new?" he said, weakly.

"An adaptation of an older design," said Leonard of Quirm. "What is the problem?"

"You recall the potion I had you make, as a theoretical exercise?"

"Certainly, my lord."

"And you were sure it worked and included what I had specified?"

"Yes."

"Did you add magic?"

Leonard looked puzzled. "Well, obviously, my lord, it was necessary for certain unreal parameters -"

"Quite. Yes. I see. Now tell me, Leonard," said Lord Vetinari, "do you have a way to get rid of it?"

"Um."

"Quite," Vetinari said again. There was an awkward silence, then he said:

"How long would it take you to get to the Edge?"

"Perhaps a week, my lord? If I were to use the smaller Kite I have designed, I'm sure I could make it in a week."

"Have you tested the new Kite, Leonard?"

"Why, yes, I have! Just last week."

"...And?"

"And, er, it was entirely successful except for a few small problems -"

"I think in this case we will sacrifice speed for practicality. Take a ship," said Lord Vetinari, and for once Leonard knew better(a) than to argue.

So it was that he found himself, a month later, admiring the sight of a uncomfortably close horizon. He had learned many new things on his voyage, some of them involving the exotic and fascinating species of finches that had sprung up in the famous carnivorous forests of lower Klatch, but now it was time to do what he had come to do.

It was a complicated task, one that required a steady yet gentle hand. It involved a swamp dragon, and a harness, and other exciting things. The end result was something like a cross between a Hubland dog sled and a token pear tree.

In its claws, reinforced by complicated leather strapping, the dragon carried a jar of a thick, sludgy mixture formed by mixing an already viscous liquid with a substantial amount of ash. Leonard hadn't asked. It would be gone soon, lost in the depths of space, and then he could go back to writing his new (and already rather thick) book, How Simple Animals Grow Appendages Through Mutation and Become Complicated Animals Like Us. Finches, he thought, that was the thing.

(a) In all likelihood, that is, he knew better than to argue. It is also possible that he was merely distracted by the pattern of candlelight on his Puzzle For Entertaining Intelligent and Mildly Obsessive People By Way Of Complex Mechanisms And Colored Cubes That Can Be Rotated, which he could already solve in 17 seconds and was quickly becoming something of a hobby(b).

(b) Not that Leonard of Quirm ever took up a hobby for more than, oh, six to seven hours, but all the same. It was a nice little game, if he did say so himself.