Chapter 20 - An Eternity of Instants

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander, City Watch, regarded his most trusted subordinate. "Carrot, someone inside the Watch has been talking."

"Sir?"

Vimes sighed. Remember who you are talking to, Sam. "To The Times, Carrot. To The Times."

"Yessir.[1]"

"You know how I feel about that newspaper of de Worde's, Carrot."

The captain's browed furrowed, "That it's only good for the privy sir?"

Vimes smiled. "Exactly."

The furrow increased. "But sir, isn't it a bit dim for reading in there?"

Vimes gave Carrot's honest face a long slow look as he counted to three. "Exactly…" he continued carefully, "which is why I recommend an alternate use of it." Vimes considered his left hand, which was fiddling with a bit of newsprint. "And the men know how I feel about it. And yet," His fist bunched, crumpling the paper into a tight wad, "one of them saw fit to inform de Worde's minions that an unknown person-"

"Pleasant Omnian[2] I believe was the term they used, Commander."

That diffused a bit of his anger. "Hah, right. As if there is any such animal." He coughed. "As I was saying, now that de Worde has the idea that there was someone besides the Watch involved in young Jessica's Knäcke's recovery, it's only a matter of time before they find out who that someone was."

Carrot scratched his head. "Do you want me to inform the men that they are not to say anything further?"

Vimes shook his head sadly. "Wouldn't work. Once de Worde gets his teeth into something, trying to stay closed-mouth about it doesn't help. Hell, it makes it worse! Because then he's sure that you're hiding something." Vimes considered the ball of paper in his hand, and pitched it over his shoulder. "No we're going to try a different approach. Send word to de Word[3] that we've got an exclusive interview lined up for him."

"Yessir."

"And arrange an escort for LeJean to get to the Palace. Make it Cheery, she has been getting on well with LeJean, and I have a sneaky feeling Vetinari's going to want to talk to her about that article." His face contorted into something approaching a smile. "I am waiting to see her try that little trick she pulled on me, with Vetinari. Somehow I doubt she would want him stopping by the bakery for a chat."

Myria's stomach had settled a bit once the initial shock wore off. Also, having something in her stomach to actually throw up (tea) sped up the process a bit (throwing up that is) and seemed to take some of the stress with it.

Perhaps that is the purpose of throwing up? To express how one feels about the stress of the moment? She considered. And having expressed it, the stress is relieved.

I would prefer other means.

Another side-effect of throwing up was that Jessica and Rosemarie had shown significant concern, which was somewhat comforting. That had lasted only until Susan had arrived and with drill-sergeant-like-efficiency, had whipped Myria into shape and trotted her the few blocks to the Palace while insisting Jessica stay at the bakery.

They barely cleared the threshold of the bakery before Myria began questioning exactly what they were doing. "But, what if the Patrician does not wish to see us?"

Susan smirked. "Oh he does. Trust me."

"But we do not have an appointment."

"We will. You can bet yesterday's fish that Vetinari has read every word in that article. Or has someone who did it for him and told him all about it."

"But-"

Susan stopped and gripped Myria's shoulder. "Myria, please. Just relax and trust me. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"My ladies?"

Susan and Myria both turned to find a young constable standing, hands open and palms out in the universal gesture of 'please don't hit me'.

"Yes," Susan answered coldly.

"Ma'am, not to impose, but may I ask where you're bound? My orders are to guard the Knäcke's but the commander-"

Susan considered her options before responding. Bah. Why torture the pathetic thing. "The Palace."

The constable physically sagged in relief. "Thank you miss."

"Pray don't mention it," and she whirled, pulling Myria down the street toward Lower Broadway and the Brass Bridge.

Myria would have preferred a longer walk, to further come to terms with events, but unfortunately it was less than ten short blocks to the Palace entrance. In fact they were only a few yards from the river-side gate when they heard the sound of steel-shod boots and much huffing and puffing behind them. Turning, they beheld a red-faced and very winded Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom hurrying toward them. Once there, she pulled her axe from her belt, planted it firmly butt-first on the cobblestones, and leaned over it gasping for breath.

Myria felt a mix of pleasure and concern. "Cheery! It is good to see you. Is there something wrong?"

"Here *gasp* escort *cough* Palace."

Myria and Susan stared at Cheery, then turned to look at the gates scant feet away and the two somewhat amused palace guards on either side. Myria cocked her head slightly. "But that makes no sense, Cheery. You observe that we are already here."

Cheery coughed deeply and then shook her head. "Not yet you're not." She took another deep breath and stood a bit straighter. "There's still a good four axe-lengths to go, and I'm not getting a bad chit for failure to follow orders. I'm escorting."

Susan raised an eyebrow at Myria. "Do you mean to say," asked Myria, "that if you walk with us these few feet then you have fulfilled the letter of your orders."

Cheery nodded.

"And this is important, and costs me nothing."

Another vigorous nod.

"Come on Myria," Susan smirked, "let us be escorted."

The palace guards let them through with grins of their own, while Cheery slumped down against the wall beside the gate. "I'll just wait for you here. I need to sit down."

Myria and Susan were met at the palace entrance by a well-dressed and studious-looking man who introduced himself as the Patrician's chief clerk.

"The Patrician is expecting you, but he is currently in a meeting. If you would be so kind as to wait, he will call upon you at his convenience." So saying, he led the two up several flights of stairs to a sparsely furnished room and excused himself.

"At his convenience. Of all the nerve," Susan muttered.

The two women stood for a few moments, then seated themselves in two chairs that were somehow a mixture of being too soft and too hard at the same time, and also rather wobbly in a strange way.

Regardless, Susan managed to make herself marginally comfortable, until she noticed Myria staring at a large grandfather clock in the corner, eyes narrowing and jaw muscles working visibly.

Oh dear. Could it possibly remind her of Clockson? She spent a few more seconds trying to decide whether to ask, before Myria broke the silence.

"Susan."

"What's the matter?" Susan replied warily.

"The clock."

"What about it?

"It is… wrong."

Susan studied it. Face. Hands, moving. Pendulum swinging. Ticking noise. The time looked correct even. "It looks like it is telling the right time to me. What, is it a few minutes fast or slow? Seriously Myria you need to be less insistent on being exact."

"No. The actual time is correct. That is, correct enough. But… can you not hear it? The seconds are not all the same length. And there is no regularity to the pattern. It is… disconcerting. Wrong."

Susan closed her eyes for a moment, listening carefully, then grimaced. "You know Myria, sometimes it's better not to share your little observations, especially when they are correct." She rubbed her temples. "Now I'm going to have that eating away at my sanity too for however long we are here."

"So I am not imagining it? How is this possible? It makes my teeth ache!"

Susan pursed her lips. "I bet the bastard had it specially designed that way, just to put visitors on edge. Now stop focusing on it and think of something else, or I'll have to start singing to distract us… and neither one of us want that."[4]

It was an eternity later, measured out in three-thousand, eight-hundred and fifty-four point two maddeningly erratic and agonizingly irregular ticks of the demon clock from the dungeon dimensions before the door opened again, by which time Myria felt the beginnings of a head ache and an intense desire to reduce the clock to its component atoms. Susan seemed little better, and had been muttering something about hoping the designer had already met her grandfather.

It was not, however, Drumknott, but a very aged man who walked stiffly and with soft creaking noises. In fact, Myria decided, he was more than aged. He was ancient. A slight odor of formaldehyde and nearly fossilized leather seemed to waft with him as he paused in front of the duo, giving Myria an appraising look.

"You must be Miss LeJean."

What manner of human is this?

"Lady LeJean," corrected Susan.

An observation nagging Myria through the head ache broke through into her forebrain, bypassed the neurons that handled courtesy and propriety, and engaged the mouth without asking anyone else's opinion "You have no pulse." She blurted out, then felt her face flush and warm. Stupid body.

"How impertinent," the man responded dryly[5], "and yet nonetheless true. And you have no gold, Miss LeJean."

"Lady LeJean," interjected Susan, with more heat.

The man responded, still facing Myria. "That remains to be seen. Twerps Peerage certainly has no record of the LeJean family in its annals of nobility." He turned to face Susan finally, "The Sto Helit line, on the other hand, is well established, my lady."

Susan crossed her arms and tilted her head back slightly. "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure."

"Forgive me. I am Mister Slant, of Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, Attorneys."

A cold smile spread across her face. "Oh I know who you are, Slant. And it's no pleasure at all meeting you. Now, if you would be so accommodating as to move aside, we have a meeting with the Patrician.

One positive side effect of having been dead for several hundred years was that you are somewhat immune to insult, probably a result of all hormone-producing organs having run out of fuel decades ago. "How droll. And yes, I am quite aware of the purpose of your visit. You see, I happen to be representing Lord Rust's interests in this little misunderstanding."

Myria could only watch as two individuals, both very used to getting their way, stood facing each other with deceptive calm. "I'm sure you are," Susan continued, "It is too bad that he has no interests to represent in this matter."

"That remains to be seen. However, I do wish Miss LeJean the best. In every other regard, of course. You may consider this some sort of personal attack, but I assure you it is merely business."

Susan's eyes narrowed. "As if that excuses everything."

"In the law, there are no excuses, only precedents. Now, if you will excuse me I have matters to attend to." Nodding to Myria, he turned and with only the merest hint of shamble, made his way to the door.

"Well. There's someone who is overdue."

"Susan!"

She actually looked contrite. "One of the hazards of being in my family. I can't help feeling that the undead are simply cheating. Honestly I don't know why my grandfather lets them get away with it."

Myria was about to point out that this seemed somewhat of a double standard, considering her own recent state, but they were interrupted by the chief clerk's return. "My apologies my ladies. The Patrician will see you now."

[1] This is always a tricky response. Every watchman, soldier, and underling across the universe has learned the value of the "yessir" when faced with an observation from a superior. It has the benefit of being a vague response that can mean anything from "I absolutely agree with you sir!" to "I recognize that you have just spoken sir!" Which leaves the interpretation up to the superioriorior officer.

[2] Like a Good Samaritan, but with pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets.

[3] You grimaced. I know you did. If it's any consolation so did Vimes, and he is the one who said it.

[4] We'll have to take Susan's word for it, because frankly I've never heard her sing, and neither have you. You can bet, however, that if she did it would be absolutely nothing about long imaginary words or taking ones medicine the easy way.

[5] Not that he had any other manner of responding. When it's been over 250 years since you had a drink of water, the most appropriate word for your texture, attitude, and anything else you care to apply it to is at the least "dry" and at worst "practically desiccated."