Hot and Cold by samepaverge
Chapter 3
Ka-chlack.
He snapped it. Once. Twice.
Ka-chlack. Ka-chlack.
Lord Havelock Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork's sanest Patrician yet, sat in what could only be described as suppressed awe. He gingerly held between his long fingers a device that, when snapped, produced a thin metal wire bent at both ends. It was Leondard of Quirm's creation, a sticking-papers-together-with-a-piece-of-metal-device he said, and it worked using a spring mechanism that disloges the wire and fastens the papers.
Vetinari called it The Snapper. And it was more than an office tool, it was a weapon. As much of a good weapon as a paperclip was. In the right hands, there were just so many possibilities.
And it was only seven in the morning.
Drumknott showed up at the Oblong Office, soundless as a shadow, and he juggled a cup of tea, a plate of toast and several manila folders between two hands.
Vetinari sighed and put the Snapper down. "Good morning, Drumknott," he said brightly. "I trust you have rested well?"
Drumknott coughed. "Erm, yes, your lordship," he replied with a rasp in his voice. He set the items down on Vetinari's desk.
The Patrician looked at the bedraggled man before him. It was only three hours ago when they had last seen each other. He had been working the man hard, he knew, but it was part of the occupation. There have been worse days. "Very well," he told Drumknott, with as much concern as can be placed in a few words, "you may go."
"Sir?"
"Yes, Drumknott."
"Commander Vimes is right outside, sir. Shall I show him in?"
"Ah, yes," Vetinari said, but as Drumknott turned to go, he recalled something. "Wait-"
"Sir?"
Vetinari held the Snapper with one hand and two pages of a report in another. "Would you mind taking a look at this?" he said excitedly.
As Drumknott stood at attention, Vetinari placed the corners of both pieces of paper between the jaws of the Snapper and pressed hard. It went ka-chlack, and they were joined together by a strip of wire. He waved it at Drumknott's direction. "Hm?" said Vetinari proudly.
A pair of tired eyes stared back at him. "It is sacrilege, sir." Drumknott pronounced slowly. "May I show the Commander in now?"
The Patrician put the Snapper down. "Oh yes, yes," he said, before opening a folder to skim its contents.
Drumknott shuffled out of the Oblong Office and greeted Vimes at the waiting room. "Take care," said Drumknott to the Commander, "he's feeling a bit, erm, radical today."
"Radical?" Vimes mouthed.
"Yes," he answered with a nod. "If he shows you that thing that snaps, I beg you, Commander," he said pointedly to Vimes, "to say something encouraging about paperclips."
Drumknott left Vimes, but not without spouting something about changing his desk locks and keeping 'them' safe.
When Vimes stepped into the Oblong Office, Vetinari was hunched over his desk, reading. "Sir?" Vimes began.
The Patrician looked up at him and shuffled the papers on his desk, trailing a fingertip across the edges. "Good morning, Commander," Vetinari said brightly, "do sit down." He gestured to a plain wooden chair across the desk.
When Vimes remained standing and staring at the wallpaper behind him, Vetinari sighed. "Very well, Commander," he said, steepling his fingers over the desk. "What news?"
Vimes cleared his throat. "The Cooper boy has been found, sir," he began.
"Oh, good. Where?"
"Floating, erm, sprawled atop the Ankh, sir. Took two hours to retrieve him, sir."
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't he have just, um, walked off it?"
"He was dead, sir, when we found him." Vimes explained.
Vetinari's face fell a fraction so small it was undiscernable. "And the party or parties responsible?"
"We are making inquiries, sir." Vimes answered automatically.
The Patrician nodded once. "Very well, " he said. "Anything else?"
What could he say? There was nothing more than the usual quota of unlicenced burglaries, murders, snatchings, beatings, brawls, squabbles and abductions that a city like Ankh-Morpork put out. And there were no other cities like it anywhere on the Disc. Where else would you find a city where more than half the population is guilty of something?
At that moment, Vimes realised that nothing was happening. Nothing was out of the ordinary. No strange isolated event that threatened to snowball into a cataclysm which could threaten the whole of Ankh-Morpork. No dramatic climax that could possibly end with one of Vetinari's ridiculous commendations. He felt his shoulders relax at the thought.
Vimes shrugged. "Old Strawhat died," he said, saying the first thing that came to mind.
"Who?" Vetinari asked.
"Old Strawhat Wishbone from Lockbee Street," he explained. "He used to run this box company, or ran it, they said. Ran it down to ground."
"Oh."
"One of his sons got in trouble a couple of weeks ago after he attacked a member of the Guild of Accountants," Vimes continued. "The company had a fair number of creditors, sir, and no doubt they'll be wanting their money back. The Merchants' Guild is taking care of the matter, and the way things are going, only one thing's gonna happen."
There was a moment's silence before anyone spoke. "Bankruptcy and foreclosure," Vetinari supplied.
"Exactly, sir," said Vimes. "There's word of the daughter taking over, but I'm not sure what good that would do."
"I doubt it as well," Vetinari concurred. "Twenty percent of all businesses set up here in the city eventually fail, Vimes, all for different reasons. It is saddening, of course, to see a venture fail, but that's your market forces in action. The world has to move on."
Vimes nodded. "They lose everything," he said, "and the world moves on."
Vetinari touched a finger to his lips and eyed Vimes. "Despite our convictions, Commander," he said, "it is never fair."
Vimes restrained a scoff. "I know, sir," he replied. "I've been in the Watch long enough to know that."
"Of course," Vetinari agreed. "Of course. Well, if there are no more news, Commander, then this must be a very uninteresting week indeed."
Vimes shuffled in his boots. "Doesn't keep you from putting in long hours, sir," he ventured.
The Patrician raised an eyebrow. "The city never sleeps, Commander," he said. "So, it appears, does the man who rules it." Vetinari lips quirked upwards for a second. "I appreciate your concern," he said, eyes lowered.
It was Vimes' turn to raise an eyebrow. "Your Lordship must've misunderstood me," he said, and Vetinari looked up in genuine surprise. "I was concerned about Drumknott, sir. You seem to be working him hard lately."
Vetinari brightened with gleeful menace. "Then I will gladly inform him of the fact," he said with a wolfish smile.
"I was merely joking, sir," Vimes insisted, "but he did seem bothered earlier."
Vetinari nodded. "It was because of the Snapper," he said.
"Sir?"
The Patrician waved a metallic object at Vimes and began snapping it in front of him.
"Think about the paperclips, sir," Vimes said, recalling something that Drumknott mentioned to him earlier.
Vetinari chuckled. "Yes, I had him worried, didn't I?" he said. "Of course, Commander, I really cannot do anything that would inconvenience my clerks, despite how beautiful and revolutionary this is." Vetinari laid a hand on the Snapper like a pet.
"Sir," Vimes answered.
A moment's silence ensued, and Vimes felt that his presence was no longer necessary.
"I have to go now, sir," he said, adding, "I won't keep you from your tea."
At its mention, Vetinari noticed the cup in front of him. He took a sip. "It's cold," he said.
Vimes knew he was not in the position to talk about what someone ate for breakfast. He could still distinctly recall those days when he drank Bearhugger's for more than one mealtime. He thought he had sufficiently improved when he began to eat real people food for breakfast (eggs, bacon, black burnt bits drowned in fat), and now that he was married and well-fed (oh, how the two seemed to go hand in hand!), he couldn't keep his mouth shut when he noticed that Vetinari ate only a cup of tea and a piece of toast for breakfast. The man ate like a prisoner.
Vimes shuffled in his boots. "You might want to consider eating something a little more sustaining, er, sir," he said.
Vetinari only tilted his head in reply, coaxing him for an explanation.
"Well, um, maybe eating a bit of meat perhaps," Vimes continued.
"Where did you learn that, Commander?" Vetinari asked, as though what he said was a piece of forgotten lore.
Vimes shrugged. "Just something that Sybil tells me everytime, sir," he replied, without looking at the Patrician. "She says I've got to 'put more meat into my bones', and," he paused, "and I thought maybe you could use putting some meat...into your, um, bones."
A moment passed; Vetinari stared at Vimes while Vimes stared at the wallpaper behind him. "Ah," Vetinari said, "perhaps I might take it to heart, then. Very well, Commander," he continued with an air of finality, "you may go, if you please."
When Vimes had left, Vetinari resumed reading the reports. He never had a trouble with concentration. In fact, it was not unusual that he would sit down to work at seven in the morning and not stand up until it was dark. He was one of the people who believed that if you wanted something to be done, you just sit down and do it. Focus was never a problem, but something bothered him, right between his stomach and his throat. It fluttered and would not settle down, like butterflies in a garden. Or flies on a corpse, come to think of it.
What he really needed...
What he really, really needed...was a thing that could reverse the effect of the Snapper, an un-Snapper of some sort. He had to speak to Leonard of Quirm for some design ideas.
The flies stopped buzzing for a moment.