Havelock Vetinari

Ariette, Luca, and two guards have been despatched under detailed instructions to investigate Lord Grue de Agen's city home - which has the immediate drawback of Havelock and Brix being left with no immediate action to take themselves.

Havelock had resumed his lesson very briefly in calm, measured tones that left the apprentices frozen in silent uncertainty, until he dismissed them with a sadistic quantity of reading to do on top of their delayed presentations.

After that, Gentian seemed the logical place to return.


The place is still in something of a flurry, quiet though its members habitually are, and matters are not improved by a tall black-clad Mandrake stalking his way through the corridors with Brix nó Balm de Marsilikos beside him - surely she would have left by now, even as a concerned patron? - and stopping members of the House seemingly at random as they go.

It's only a matter of time before they find someone who remembers Matthieu's encounter with Grue de Agen.

The apprentice that presents a letter at Brix nó Balm de Marsilikos' house is still young enough to be properly called a child, but bears the direct gaze and assured air of one who knows he is meant to stay with House Mandrake.

He waits with creditable calm and quiet for one who knows his vaguely-intimidating teacher is actually waiting just across the street in a carriage, and might arch an eyebrow in no uncertain terms if he takes too long.

(Havelock nó Mandrake's ways are sometimes strange, but it would be unthinkable to question him.)


The letter - when it reaches Brix - is sealed tight, and inside reads simply,

Brix, I need to talk to you.

-Havelock

When Havelock pushes open the door to the bar, it takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch back from the sudden wash of noise and light into the dead silence of the dark alley behind him.

He is dressed in full assassin's black, for once - but it is torn and dirty, and there is blood on one shoulder bared by a rip in the cloth, and on both his hands. His face is covered in dark smudged paint, obscuring the pallor of his skin and making his eyes look very pale under the hood. He hesitates a moment, but slowly enters instead of leaving; glancing carefully about before heading in silence to the door.

Once outside, he heads slowly to the lake, welcoming the dark and the quiet.

The Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May is not, to Havelock, feeling all that glorious.

Havelock, in an effort to keep his mind of various things, is writing letters in the library, secluded at a desk and left alone by librarians, possibly out of recognition of a kindred spirit, possibly just out of self-preservation.

(Admittedly, this is itself part of an experiment into how completely he can keep his mind clear of incriminating thought trails. Multi-tasking is a way of life.)

Most are still in the draft stages, although one to Lilly is finished - writing in cipher is easy enough, even if their delivery methods are rather roundabout - and he has several piles of sheets in various stages scattered around him. It's organised chaos to Havelock, and presumably just chaos to anyone else.

He stares, intent for a moment on the line he has just written, narrows his eyes critically, and crosses it through.

It's such a temptation to go too far into irony when manipulating politicians.

For the fourth night in a row, Trowa's stayed in a rented room at Milliways rather than going home. More pertinently, for the fourth night in a row, Trowa's continued to be in Havelock Vetinari's body rather than his own.

The situation is getting . . . kind of tiresome.

It's been just about four hours at home. Another day and a half here, and Cathy's going to have to start working harder to cover for his absence. But that's her concern, really. Trowa can't contribute much except by getting this fixed.

Pity he doesn't really have many more leads than he started out with. Not much that's useful, anyway.

(Wait a while for it to wear off, he's heard some people suggesting. It's even worked for some other people already, he's seen. It'd be great if that happened soon, but he can't afford to count on it.)

He's up in the rafters again. Listening, half-hidden in shadow, and thinking.

Havelock slips up to the office with remarkable discretion, considering he has to cross the crowded bar to do so. The illogical Milliways shadows help, but mostly it's a matter of thinking yourself unnoticeable - which, in Havelock's opinion, he could always use some work on.

He hesitates, then knocks on the door to see if anyone is in there. He doesn't exactly want to post a note on the notice board, and delivering a letter through Bar does have the down side that whoever receives it will probably read it out in the open.

He could slip a note underneath, he supposes... but really, if possible, better not.

"--And is the evening wear really mandatory?"

He looks blankly and politely enquiring.

Margolotta snorts. "No, boy. I just wished to be sure you vere paying attention."

She sighs, and waves a hand at a chair.

"Sit down, there's obviously nothing the matter with your memory."

He does so, sliding into the chair with what she can only suppose is rebellious lack of grace and watches her. She eyes him back. That look could be really rather unsettling, with work, she concedes. Perhaps they will work on it some time.

"So," she says, deliberate and thoughtful. "You brought a strange boy with you, who appears to vish for nothing more than to tear my throat out vith his teeth, or at least to make a constant nuisance of himself. How did you manage it, and vhy?"

Havelock folds his arms, and regards her in silence as she walks closer, staring at him as if her gaze can drill into his mind and find out what he's thinking.

It's not too far from the truth, he recalls uncomfortably; catches himself, and starts blandly reciting Klatchian vocabulary in his head. The logic of language is calming to the thoughts - a little like white noise, he hopes.

Margolotta sighs in mild irritation.

"Vhat is he?"

The question whips out, loud in the confined stone room, and hard against his mind, but Havelock had been expecting that since he entered the room, and says nothing, reciting a textbook description of belladonna in his head instead.

It's getting easier to stay calm, and keep his thoughts his own. Certainly easier than before he was changed, although that comes as no surprise. If he dislikes the necessity, he will still find the advantages in this.

She smiles, after a moment, hard and twisted to one side, but reluctantly pleased.

"He has certainly focused your mind, I vill give him that," she says. "All right, keep him if you must. But don't expect me to stop you if you drink from him. He is not vun of my townspeople, I place no particular value on his life."

Havelock nods once, and tries not to shudder at the memory. It's galling to admit that he still needs her to physically stop him killing helpless people, whether they be man, woman or child.

"I won't," he says, low and quiet.

The letter is short, to the point, and written in neat capitals to aid decoding. Once the key is applied, it translates thus:

Dear Duo,

I regret to inform you that our situation has not improved.

Sadly, therefore, I cannot counsel your return for the foreseeable future, as there is now a significant risk of involuntary exsanguination by third party. I know Lady Vialle has been having some difficulties on that score, although she seems unharmed. Others have not been so lucky, although there have been no fatalities. I will keep you updated.

Our other problems have been remarkably absent. This is most welcome but ominous, to my mind. At least you know where you are with constant death threats, oblique or not.

I hope that you are doing well on your travels, and that the children have neither tired of their journey nor become too tiresome. Please let us know how you all fare.

Yours,

Marlowe

There is a postscript, in large spidery letters that look definitely different from the original hand. It simply reads:

P.S. SORRY.

They mount the stairs in such grim silence that someone might be forgiven for thinking there was some kind of unspoken tension in the air.




Chances are good.

Havelock counts the door numbers with the care of one used to Milliways' fluid approach to internal architecture, fingers linked absently with Puck's, then comes to a halt in front of number sixty-three. It's been a while since he last visited Nita - chronic introversion does have unfortunate side-effects in that respect - but this is at least the right place.


He glances down at Puck once more, then knocks firmly.