You do the job that's in front of you.
That's what Vimes always said, wasn't it? The man was hardly one of the Disc's greatest thinkers, but occasionally he came out with something almost as profound as it was simple. Lord Vetinari had filed many of these sayings away in the privacy of his head over the years, for various reasons, not least of which being that it was entertaining to watch the commander narrow his eyes when Vetinari used them against him later.
Vetinari read the slip of paper again. The urchin who had delivered it fidgeted nervously.
"Scuse me, your Lordship..?"
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "You are dismissed. See the clerk on the way out."
The urchin bobbed his head and scuttled off.
Drumknott appeared soundlessly by the Patrician's side. Vetinari handed him the paper without a word.
The secretary read it and paled. "Oh. What do we do now, sir?"
Vetinari stood. "We do the job that's in front of us, Drumknott. Fetch the coach, will you?"
…
The coach rolled to a halt. A keen observer might note that the door took a fraction of a second too long to open. Vetinari climbed out.
The gravel crunched gently underfoot as he crossed it. He paused midway to appreciate the scent of the lilac blooms that interwove the hedges, and to nudge a toy sword - paint faded by time and weather - out of the path with his cane. The same keen observer might note the man hesitate on the step, but they would have to be an incautious man to ever speak of it, and certainly they would be best to forget they'd ever heard the slight intake of breath that preceded the ringing of the ancient doorbell.
A young footman answered and showed him to the drawing room.
"Lord Vetinari, ma'am."
Sybil was darning a sock, and looked up questioningly as the Patrician entered.
"Havelock? We didn't have an appointment, did we…? I'm afraid Sam is out…"
The sentence fell away as she saw his face; the sock forgotten.
Lord Vetinari removed his hat, and spoke the words.
Because Vimes had been right. You did the job that was in front of you.
Always.