Hot and Cold
Chapter 5
Even the weather, it seemed, could bump all its hard work at the end of the work week. While no one was entirely certain how difficult precipitation was compared to other meteorological activities, it appeared that the weather liked to push it until there was nothing else to do and just when the people below were looking forward to doing nothing. So it was another wet-day Friday, and the cobbles glistened while soot and grime was wiped temporarily from the streets. Ankh-Morpork was like an unwashed brat that jumped out of doors as soon as bath time was over, clothing optional.
There was a stationary black coach at the steps of the Unseen University. A few minutes ago a tall, thin man vacated it, entered the enormous building, and made his way towards the Library. Somewhere inside this place that defied the laws of Space and Time, was the Librarian's desk. It was currently occupied by an Orangutan that was quietly stamping labels on a stack of books and idly chewing a banana.
The dark-haired man stood expectantly in front of him, hands clasped behind his back. "New acquisitions?" he asked.
"Ook," the Librarian answered. These were the new books, the Librarian meant to say. The tamer ones at least, they always get stamped first. The magical ones would have to be dealt with later, after lunch is finished. "Ook ook eek?" he continued, with an inquiring look on his face.
The man's expression remained impassive. "Dear me, no," he said. "It's Mr. Keen, and yes, I am here to borrow some books."
It was his and the Librarian's little secret. Everyone knew that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was always watched, men at the top usually are, and it was the sacred task of those below to watch what the Man was doing. Not many know that it was the Man's task to know where and when and how he was being watched, and how to mess with them accordingly. It's lonely at the top, they say, but gods they were wrong. It's just a matter of finding alternative sources of entertainment, but ever since he had been taken off the Assassins' Guild's roster, something about board-smashing, he heard, well, life had been a little lacklustre, but he eventually recovered. Traps were nevertheless still to be maintained, and the windows to his office were, last time he checked, utterly unclimbable.
Vetinari knew those who watched him keenly, those who watched him with an eye and those who couldn't care less if he kept virgins chained in the dungeon, which he didn't, really, but it was still ridiculous what sort of things people made up about him. For the record, the Patrician's Palace did have a dungeon (Or dungeons, rather. Many, many dungeons.), but it was because the place was previously the official residence of Ankh-Morporkian monarchy. That is, until old Stoneface Vimes did his thing and lobbed off the King's head. But the dungeons stayed. It came with the place, you could say, like the pipes that always leaked or that window that just wouldn't budge, which the landlord always promised he'd get fixed but always forgot.
But the dungeon walls never forgot, his clerks whispered amongst one another. They had half of the dungeons converted into storage space, because the Palace sucked paper in like a vacuum, and nothing ever comes out. There have been stories, he knew, of a new clerk (it was always a new clerk) going down the spiral steps, rummaging through the endless rows of flimsy boxes to look for some forgotten file only to suddenly hear the sounds of chains clanging, distant groaning, blood-curdling screams, the smell of fish frying and a voice that whispers 'Two onions and a sweet potato...'. It was the legacy of an era past, and Vetinari thought of those kings, who also watched the men watching them, and he knew that some of those men had ended up on those dungeons.
Vetinari wasn't particularly keen on dungeon-throwing; it simply wasn't his style. Besides, the cost of the upkeep would only put more stress on the City's budget, which it certainly could not afford. Additionally, some people are infinitely more useful outside prisons rather than inside it, except Leonard of Quirm, because the man simply had to be contained. He also disliked shaking people up and asking them too many questions, which was Lord Winder's method, and look where he ended up. What Vetinari did was arrange things, a detail here, another there, and with enough force, it was only a matter of physics before the balls fell into the right pockets.
When he took the position as Patrician many years ago, he had to get used to having people's eyes on him. As a former assassin, he was used to blending in the shadows, keeping still and making sure that he was never seen. Patience. Silence. His life depended on them. And now that he was in the public eye, he was suddenly the target of people who very much wanted to know what made him tick. Because all the Patricians had something. So they had their eyes peeled for him, but when months passed and he did nothing but read reports, arrange meetings, and, well, do his job, they were all frustrated, disappointed and relieved at the same time. Of course he was disinclined to disappoint people, but people-pleaser he was not. They eventually gave up on him and left him alone, while a few hung around, waiting for something to turn up.
Lord Rust, for example. Vetinari would have laughed if it was his idea of amusement, but the man had the habit of spying on Vetinari's Library usage, of all things. Rust must have taken the idea of knowledge equals power seriously, so the key to Vetinari's power must be his knowledge, and the key to Vetinari's knowledge must be found in the books he read. Even he was impressed with the leap in Rust's logic. Vetinari wished he could tell the man that he never borrowed books using his own name, but instead have made a little arrangement with the Librarian to have another name in the records, a Mr. Valclav Rithidoor-Keen. An odd name, Vetinari knew, but it was one that he just made up on the spot.
Lord Havelock Vetinari, on the record, borrowed mostly political treatises and monographs on Klatchian economics, but lately he had been borrowing books on Monomoriums and Agatean carpets, just to shake things up. He wondered what Rust would make of it. Vetinari sometimes thought of telling Rust about it, but that meant his little game would be over, and besides, he could never find the right occasion.
Mr. Keen, on the other hand, borrowed whatever he liked, and he was always bumped to the top of the waitlist, so he was sure that he made a few enemies. The Librarian informed him that there were vague threats on Keen's life, and that very bad things would happen to Keen should he ever show up. He was amused by that. Of course Mr. Keen's enemies were mostly students, serious readers and ordinary people, which hardly terrified him. Nobles in Ankh-Morpork are too busy to read, and they regarded it as the habit of commoners and therefore inferior. If books would have to be read, then it would certainly be books which held up the right virtues and presented the right ideals.
Vetinari let the Librarian make recommendations for him. He, that is the Librarian, had a knack for guessing which book a person wanted to read. A few days after Wuffles' death, for example, a copy of 'Grieving for Your Pet' had turned up at his desk, and while it didn't make things any better (Wuffles was still in doggie heaven, with an unlimited supply of Trucklement's Yummy Assortment), he had been a little more accepting. When Vetinari returned the book, the Librarian told him that it was the books who chose the reader, not the other way around, and in a place like this, filled with magic, you just had to think it was so.
The Librarian had come back. Vetinari didn't even notice that he was gone, but apparently the Librarian had been collecting recommendations, books that wanted Vetinari to read them, and he now laid the stack at his desk. The Librarian held out each one of them, showing each title to Vetinari, and the books, in some mystical way, chose.
"Ook?" The Librarian asked. It was a slim volume entitled 'Modern Uberwaldian Opera'.
Vetinari shook his head. "No," he answered.
"Ook?" A green book with a picture of a small bird. Below it said 'The Birds of Borogravia'.
Vetinari nodded.
"Ook?" It was a battered hardbound that said 'The Chimneye Sweeper'
Dear gods, he was a boy when he read that! He shook his head.
"Ook?" The Slapstick Girl.
Vetinari was sure that story was about the girl who died on Hogswatch Eve, laughing.
And on and on it continued, until the the Librarian got to the last book on the stack, which was about stunted trees that came from the Agatean Empire. Apparently, cultivating stunted trees had a calming effect on a person. Interesting. He borrowed the book, along with 'The Birds of Borogravia'.
His reading tastes might as well be esoteric to the next person, but he made it a point to read things he did not know much about, for one did not know when such things might come in handy. We read and we learn, we read and we learn...
The books were checked out under Mr. Keen's name. Vetinari tucked it under his arm and turned to go, but not without passing by a young man with a harried-looking expression on his face. In fact, he was so harried that he hardly gave a thought to the Patrician whom he passed. Vetinari heard the conversation between the young man and the Librarian which went something like this:
"Ook?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you," there was a pause as the man tried to catch his breath, "but do you happen to have 'The Birds of Borogravia'? I'm going there tomorrow for bird-watching, you see, and-what?"
"Ook eek ook."
"What do you mean it's on loan? It only got here yesterday, and I was first on the waitlist!"
"Ook eek."
"Are you serious? But that's impossible! Who is-let me see!"
"Ook!"
"That Valclav Keen guy again? Well who does he think he is? If that bloke shows up I swear he's going to get it."
"Ook! Ook!"
"Oh, I'm not scared of him. Why, he must be some inbred moron, not knowing how the system works. The bloody idiot must think he runs the city."
"Eek eek."
"Yeah, do you know how many times he's pulled that trick? There should be some rule or something about this. I bet I could get him banned from coming in here."
"Ook, ook!"
"Oh, that's what you think, huh? Well why don't you quit and work for him, you stupid monk-aah, AAH! GET OFF!"
"OOK! OOK EEK OOK!"
Vetinari's lips quirked upwards in the semblance of a smile and kept walking towards the door. We read and we learn...
XoXoXoX
When Vetinari arrived at the Palace, Drumknott was waiting for him inside.
"Good afternoon, Drumknott," he said, "They are in the waiting room, I expect?"
The clerk nodded, clutching a worn clipboard with both hands. "Yes, sir," he answered. "Best not to keep them waiting, sir."
"Of course, of course," he said, "well, do show them in. And say I'll be with them shortly."
So much for a bit of afternoon reading, Vetinari thought, but how could he really expect otherwise? Ever since he became Patrician, he hardly had time to be Vetinari, much less be Havelock. Because when you came down to it, the Patrician was more of an indentured servant than a ruler, and while he was a tyrant, his hands were nevertheless tied by a thousand fine strings. They pulled whichever way, and it was up to him to stand fast and balance the forces.
As the Patrician, he could grant audience to whomever he wanted. He recalled considering having an 'anyone who wants to come in can come in' policy, which was a move rulers made when they wanted to look approachable, transparent and nice when they had many things to hide. It was worth a try, he thought, and maybe ordinary people with important problems and bright ideas could have a listening ear. He, of course, failed to recall that the city he was ruling was Ankh-Morpork, and you never, ever under-estimated its citizens.
They tried it at the Palace for a week, but what he wound up with was an endless queue of people who asked him the strangest questions. He distinctly recalled some of them:
"Your Lordship, I have been seeing this man for two years...why won't he marry me?"
"Sir, do you have a good recipe for bilberries? I have a cartful and I don't want them to spoil."
"Lord Vetinari, what sort of wine goes with roasted loin of lamb? Would that be white or red, sir?"
"Went to Mrs. Palm's the other week, erm, sir, and I seem to have got this rash right at the, erm, well would you mind taking a look at it, sir?"
"What's the synonym for 'caliginous', your Lordship? Five letters, and the fourth should be an 'R'."
"Mind sparing a tuppence, sir?"
The last one was asked by Nobby Nobbs. And when he realized that no one would actually start asking him important things, they had scrapped the idea. But no one in the Palace forgot the people and the questions and the queue that stretched all the way to the gates.
For the record, he knew the answers to all the questions. Yes, even the fourth one.
Vetinari entered the Oblong Office, went quietly to his chair, sat down, opened a folder and started reading. This went on for a few minutes, and when it appeared that the Patrician was not paying them any attention, someone in the group cleared his throat. It was a small sound at first, timid and unobtrusive. It then became a cough. But when the Patrician seemed not to have heard anything, it escalated into hawking, hacking, harrumphing followed by an unmistakable whoop.
The Patrician turned a page and massaged his temple.
The hawking had transformed into a chorus of coughs and throat-clearing, each with its own tempo and dynamics, and somehow, there was a sound of someone being choked to death.
Vetinari didn't stop reading, but instead pushed a tin of Fink 'n' Pratt's Particular Cough Drops (Lemon Lime flavor) towards them.
The noise slowly died, and someone managed to squeak out, "Si-ir?"
"Ye-es?" Vetinari said, without looking up.
"Well, we are from the Guild of Merchants, your Lordship," the man continued, "and this is Mr. Will Tubman, our Guildmaster."
Vetinari looked up to the speaker and was distracted by the man's eccentric appearance.
"Dear me," he said, closing the folder. "Whatever happened to you?"
The man had a purple bruise right below his eye, and when Vetinari turned to his companions, he noticed that two of them also had bruises. Then there was Tubman, two fellows who were from the Guild of Accountants and a woman with graying hair but a youthful face.
"Mr. Porbeagle is also from the guild and he had a, hrm, accident," he said, turning purposefully to the woman, who maintained a sour expression.
"Accident? Accident?" Porbeagle flailed. "She knocked me out clean! And take a look at this...it's still tender!" The man touched his bruise gingerly.
Vetinari placed his fingertips together and leaned on the desk. "Now, now, Mr. Porbeagle," said Vetinari, "I am sure this is all one big misunderstanding. And it would certainly help if we start from the beginning."
When Porbeagle seemed to calm down, Tubman cleared his throat. "It's about Wishbone's box company, sir," he began.
"Goo-od," Vetinari said, nodding, "now continue."
"Well, Mr. Wishbone's passed last month you see-"
"I'm certain he could come back the other way," Vetinari said innocently. He noticed the woman's frown deepen.
"He's got a one way ticket where he's going, sir, ifyouknowwhatImean," Tubman explained with a pointed look.
"He's cashed in his chips," said a bruised one.
"He's bought the farm," said another.
"Kicked the bucket," added an Accountant.
"Popped his clogs," piped up the other, grinning.
The woman turned from an indignant pink to an infuriated red in seconds. "Enough of the-he's bloody dead, you idiots! Don't you have any respect?"
Vetinari raised both eyebrows. "Ah," he said, like he'd come across an understanding. The outburst went unheeded.
"Yes, sir, as she said," Tubman agreed, "and so now we have some issues with the, hrm, succession of the business."
Vetinari tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Do correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Tubman," said he, "but I think common law states that the business is passed on to whoever was indicated at the Will of the deceased, usually a close relative or somesuch."
Tubman nodded. "Well, yessir, in this case, it would be Miss Wishbone right here," he replied. At the mention of her name, the woman looked up with an unreadable expression. "But there was no Will," Tubman continued. "She took the position because she was the only one in the family with the, hrm, capacity to do so."
"Then I don't see the problem, Mr. Tubman," Vetinari said, "If that is so. Miss Wishbone has two brothers, doesn't she?"
Angela gave Vetinari an inquiring look, and apparently thought better than to ask how he knew. "Yes," she answered.
"And are they both occupied?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sir," Vetinari corrected. "Do you mind telling us what they do, Miss Wishbone?"
Angela looked sideways and saw the other men staring at her, waiting for her to answer. "Trader and...hobbyist, um, sir."
Vetinari gave a nod. "They must be very busy then," he supplied.
"Yes!" she answered. And when Vetinari gave her a look, added, "Sir."
Vetinari raised both hands. "There you go," said he. "Miss Wishbone accedes and she will take over."
Tubman gave a start. "It would be possible, sir, if there was it a business to take over in the first place." Without waiting for Vetinari to ask what he meant, he continued. "Everyone knows that the company has been in dire financial straits for some years now. Mr. Strawhat had a fair number of creditors who are now demanding payment now that the company is, erm, defunct."
Angela straightened her back. "No it's not!" she said.
Tubman ignored her. "Mr. Wishbone has always been an active member of the Guild, even before he, erm, passed, and so we only have his best interests at heart. In fact," he turned towards Porbeagle, who in turn handed him an official looking piece of paper, "Mr. Porbeagle had left us this, in the event that he...hrm."
Tubman handed the paper to Vetinari, who scanned it quickly, in a manner that indicated that he had seen it before. Both eyebrows were raised, and he handed back the paper to Tubman. "So you see, sir, that-" he attempted.
Angela watched the exchange occur and had to interrupt. "Right, hold up gents," she said. "You seem to have lost me." She stretched her arm towards Tubman, palm up, and waved her fingers to herself repeatedly, the universal gesture for "Gimme that". Tubman sighed and handed her the paper.
Angela read the document, her sour expression turning to a deep frown which transformed to a blank stare. "That old, nasty old-" she began.
Vetinari held up a thin hand. "Tut, tut, Miss Wishbone," he interrupted. "I think we have a clear idea what you want to say. There is no need to say it out loud." He placed an forefinger over his lips.
She turned to Tubman and Porbeagle. "How long have you known about this?" she demanded. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Porbeagle coughed. "Your father had given it to us only a year ago; he must have been worried about his health," he paused. "We," he said, gesturing to his bruised fellows, "were going to tell you, but you seem to have beaten us to the punch, ha-ha, literally." One of them narrowed his eyes at her.
Tubman held a look of disinterest. He seemed to want to get the business done as quickly as possible. "May we continue now?" he said. "Good. Now, your Lordship, since the company was entrusted it to the Guild-"
Angela snorted.
Tubman smiled wearily. "-to the GUILD," he continued, "as men of business we considered it prudent to consider all options before making a decision."
Angela's lips mouthed 'Oh' in mock realization. "Oh, wonderful," she said, "it's nice that you bothered coming up to me then, when it seems you boys have it all figured out."
Tubman's expression was one of disgust. It was not often that a distasteful young woman referred to older company as 'boys'. Even Vetinari had half a wince coming on. "Yess, Miss Wishbone," he hissed, "it was very nice of us. We could've done away with everything in half a day if we wanted. Instead, we let you biff three of our Guild members who only wanted to inform you about the steps we wanted to take, which, may I inform you, are only to keep the company from digging itself an even deeper grave."
Angela remained quiet. In fact, no one spoke up for seconds. Tubman took this as his cue to continue speaking. "Miss Wishbone," he said, a little calmer now, "the Guild has considered keeping the business alive, but it would cost money that you and the Guild alike do not have. We highly advise selling it, while it could still be done, and everyone would be satisfied...that is..."
That is except me and my family, Angela thought. "Advise," she huffed. "You talk as if I had some say in the matter. Just like you said, you could've done away with everything if you wanted. Why tell me?"
Tubman pinched the bridge of his nose, and did not speak for a while. The Patrician seemed to await his reply as well, his ear tilted slightly towards the Guildmaster. Then, he spoke. "How would you feel, Miss, if you went away somewhere only to come home and find your house locked from the outside, no way in?" Angela looked down with a slight frown. "I hope you see our point. I know it's very easy to think of us as a bunch of heartless bas-", he glanced at the Patrician, "-hrm, folks, but we're not. We're just doing what Mr. Wishbone should have done a long time ago."
Whatever anger that Angela had seemed to have dissipated, and was replaced with discouragement. "But," she began and paused to find the right words, "what about my family?"
Tubman bowed his head. He didn't have a satisfactory answer for that. No one did. It wasn't right, he knew, pulling their means of living from under their feet, but if he let things be it wouldn't be a means of living anymore; it would be a pitfall. He cleared his throat. "Now would be a good time for your brother to help out, Miss," said he, "and the Guild would be chipping in too, you could rely on that. Our bylaws state that we have to give financial assistance to a member's family in the event that he is permanently unable to do so. A pension, if you will. The Guild cannot promise a large sum, unfortunately, but we assure you that it would be all we can possibly give."
Angela sighed and nodded defeatedly. "And that's it?" she asked, looking at Tubman intently.
"That's it," he replied.
Vetinari pressed his hands together. The meeting seemed to have reached its natural denouement, when both parties have said whatever it was they have wanted to say. Meetings of the mind did not occur here, not in these rooms, but Vetinari always made sure that things were squared off, or else nobody gets out.
"Now, Miss Wishbone," Vetinari said, "the Guild has informed you of what they intend to do. However, their deference is a mere matter of formality, as Mr. Tubman has explained. You are, of course, free to take steps-"
"But that's ridiculous," she countered. "I don't even own the business!"
Vetinari ignored the interruption. "-steps of the physical variety," he continued, "but it would force us to take measures of our own."
Everyone turned to Angela for an answer. "You mean I'm not allowed to clout Mr. Tubman right here?"
At the mention of his name, Mr. Tubman clenched his jowls and looked straight ahead.
Vetinari shook his head. "I am, in fact, saying the opposite," Vetinari said, and Tubman's eyes widened. "You are, in fact, free to clout Mr. Tubman, but I am saying that there would be consequences. Action and reaction, Miss Wishbone; the world is simpler that way."
The men nodded, with the bruised trio being the most enthusiastic. Of course Angela knew what Vetinari meant. If she tried any more 'steps of the physical variety', she'd most likely get into trouble. What he's trying to tell her is that, no, you don't have any choice, now be grateful you are still alive and kindly leave. She didn't know what to say to that.
"Fine," she spat, "you can..." Somehow, she couldn't manage to say the rest of the sentence. How do you tell people that they could take everything they can without killing your pride?
Angela simply nodded.
"Very well," Vetinari said brightly, "have you gentlemen anything else to say?"
Tubman took a folder from Porbeagle. "Yes, sir," said he, "actually we are meaning to sell the business, hrm, right now."
Vetinari's eyes immediately flicked towards Angela. She suddenly became very, very good at not showing any emotion. Well done...
The Guildmaster opened the folder and made a flourish of signing his name, before handing it to Porbeagle, who also signed. Angela merely stared. She was, however, in for a surprise when Porbeagle handed the folder to the Patrician. Vetinari reached for a pen...
"Whoa, whoa," Angela interrupted. "What? What are you doing?"
Vetinari looked at her ingenuously. "I am signing my name, Miss Wishbone," he said as-a-matter-of-factly. "A signature, which is the appropriate manner of expressing agreement."
"But you're the Patrician!" said Angela, in a tone indicating that all comprehension had slipped from her. "I mean, what have you got anything to do with it, erm, sir?"
The Man looked at her. "Why, as the buyer in this party, my signature is required as part of the exchange." When he finished signing, he returned the folder to Tubman.
Angela's eyes widened. She opened her mouth and closed it again. "But you're the Patrician!" she said, as though it were a sufficient objection.
Vetinari merely nodded. "Yes, I am aware of that," he answered. "And I am also Lord Havelock Vetinari, a bona fide citizen of Ankh-Morpork, who has, last time I checked, the right to buy and own property in this city so long as I have the means to do so. And I do...have the means."
Angela was beyond words. Tubman grinned. "Well, you certainly do, sir," said he. "What about the creditors, sir?"
Vetinari placed his fingertips together. "I shall be dealing with them forthwith," he answered. "I am sure these gentleman from the Guild of Accountants will be amenable to an agreement..." The accountants tilted their heads in recognition. "At a different time, perhaps. We seem to have exhausted our meeting period, and I have other...activities to see to."
The men agreed. It was time to go. "Very well, gentlemen, Miss Wishbone," Vetinari said, "please don't let me detain you."
When everyone, even Angela Wishbone, had silently shuffled out, Vetinari turned to the stationary figure that remained inside the Oblong Office. "Well, Drumknott," he said. "What do you make of that?"
Drumknott went over to the Patrician's desk to collect and dispense some files. "I think, sir," he said quietly, "that the matter has reached a most satisfactory conclusion."
Vetinari ambled over to the large windows overlooking Broad Way and a part of the city."I think so too, Drumknott...I think so too," he replied.
The Patrician looked at the old buildings, the hundreds and hundreds of odd souls that occupied them, trying to make sense of the chaos that the Multiverse dealt out by the second, and he wondered how humanity managed to keep up.
Because we looked and we learned, thought the Patrician, and when that is not enough, we read and we learned...and in the end, we hoped to gods that everything would be alright.