Chapter 22 - Mister Filth

[A/N: I apologize for this chapter being a bit short, but I thought you would enjoy an update sooner rather than later. :-) ]

Figures appeared throughout the city. Whether it was the same three, appearing simultaneously to different individuals, or fractions of seconds after each other, or separate sets, would be impossible to determine. And frankly a worthless endeavor, since they were of identical appearance, mind, and intent.

The Lord Patrician stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out upon the city he both ruled and served. Someone able to gaze into the labyrinthine workings of that mind would, if they survived the journey, be surprised to learn which of the two he did more of.

As he stood, lost in thought, a slight change, a chill in the air, brushed up against the hairs on the back of his neck. Eyes narrowed, he spoke to the empty space before him without turning. "You do not have an appointment."

An appointment is immaterial. You are present, and we observe you have no required actions beyond those of immediate physical processes.

And that assumption is why your kind are hopelessly flawed. "Then you are mistaken."

Impossible.

And that is the other reason. "And yet, this is not the first time you have been mistaken, is it?" Vetinari turned to consider the three shadowy figures before him. He smiled slightly. "Nevertheless, since we are both here, I find I am curious as to your purpose."

There was a brief pause. The creature that styles itself LeJean. It is not human.

Vetinari stroked his narrow beard with a forefinger. "Ah. Yes. I begin to see. You will be disappointed to learn that I am fully aware of what Lady Myria LeJean was, and what she is guilty of."

There was another, longer pause. And yet, you allow it to continue… there was a collective shudder existing in its present form. This is not logical.

"Ah. Then I assume you have come to impress upon me the benefits of changing those circumstances, for my own good of course."

The creature LeJean is dangerous to you, and anathema to us. It would be better for all if it ceased functioning.

Vetinari smiled, showing very white and even teeth. It was not a pleasant smile, and reminded one of relentless swimmers in salty waters. It was the dental equivalent of The Poker, that smile, and the Auditors drew back from the force of it. "Again, you are correct. Lady LeJean is supremely dangerous to the well functioning of my city. And she is, indeed, the very antithesis of everything you represent."

There was the Auditor equivalent of an exhale. Then you will do as we suggest.

"Hardly. You create a tool, and are now horrified that it decided not to serve the purpose for which you fashioned it. How delightfully terrified you must be. And now you seek another tool, to deal with the first. There is a wondrous irony in this, do you not agree?"

Silence.

"No? A pity. No, I will not be your tool in this matter. I suggest you seek another. And I suggest you do so now, before my patience wanes."

You threaten us? We cannot be harmed.

"Perish the thought, I merely enlighten. And I believe that recent events have proven your assertion catastrophically wrong. This audience is at an end."

In a quiet study rife with oak panels, well-used and above all expensive furnishings, a serious man sat at a serious desk. He was in some ways like Lord Rust, and in other ways very unlike Lord Rust. Like, because he also was a man of wealth, prestige, and power. Unlike because he actually worked for a living[1] and had no illusions as to his place in the city, nor his mortality. At the moment, he was trying to catch up with the paperwork. It was amazing how much paperwork could be generated by a few commissions.

There was the sound, at least metaphorically, of a throat clearing.

"Ah yes, you again," Lord Downey spoke without raising his head from his desk.

We have go-

"Yes, yes. You have gold and you are willing to pay. Unfortunately, considering that the last contract for which you retained our services required special handling, I am afraid we are short of the particular expertise you might require."

The cessation of Mister Teatime was none of our responsibility.

Lord Downey set down the pen and crossed his hands on the desk before looking up. "Nevertheless, I am afraid we are not at home to any further assignments nor contracts from your particular quarter. Good day… sirs."

"What in the name of Blind Io are you?!" The man gasped as he threw himself backward against the wall.

Feddleman did not have nor pretend to have the presence of mind to deal with spectral figures materializing in a room where they had no business being. As a result, he nearly wet himself when he turned to find them hovering in front of him.

What we are is immaterial. We have a proposition for the human Lord Rust. From observation we have found you to be the proper conduit for conveying this proposal.

Feddleman pulled his wits, and his digestive system, together and put on his best 'business' tone. "I am Lord Rust's agent in many matters, but I'm sure he would not wish to be involved in anything," he looked them up and down, going for displeased, "uncanny."

The proposition involves cessation of the entity that calls itself LeJean.

For several seconds, only the ticking of a clock could be heard.

"Perhaps, in this instance, it would not hurt Lord Rust's interests to hear what you have to say."

The Shades is not the brightest part of the city, even in broad daylight. In the ebon depths of some of the narrower alleys, it is practically sepulchral.

It is in one of these parts, that three hooded figures conferred with a fourth.

"Leave us alone! We do not hear you! We do not see you! We are not you!"

You are being illogical, Mister Bro-

"STOP CALLING US THAT! WE ARE NOT A ME!" The figure sobbed. "We are not a me. That is not our name. Not our name."

The hooded figures conferred silently for a moment.

The… we that is not of us… does not wish to be an I, then.

The man lifted his face to the three figures. Greasy hair ran in tangled strings, plastered to his forehead and shadowing his eyes. Weeks of matted beard, equally full of grime, food scraps, and one rather bewildered newt[2] covered most of his face, and in places stuck to his equally filthy clothing.

"We… we do not know what we are, but we suffer."

We can alleviate this entity's suffering. But this entity must do as we instruct.

To the man's tormented and squirming thoughts, this sounded like salvation. But the title they used did not sound… right. Even a we could have a title, couldn't it?

"We will listen. But you must call us…" overly bright eyes widened, "yes, call us… Mister Filth."

[1] Which, in the mind of a man like Lord Rust, made him clearly inferior and no true gentleman. It's rather interesting that the difference between Rust's definition of a complete and utter slackard layabout and a "true gentleman" is, in fact, less about how one spends one's day and more about whether one has a bank account while doing so.

[2] There's always room for a newt.