Power Play: Chapter 1: Rain
By Tinselcat (yo!)
Rating: PG Summary: Standard Tinselcat-style teaser. Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).
Author's Note: Okay, right now I'm trying to finish up another fic for another fandom, but I decided to get this teaser up because I read a review of "The Politics Of" where someone was concerned that the sequel hadn't been posted yet (Trust me, I was as shocked as anyone that someone would even *want* to read a sequel! *tips hat to concerned reviewer*). It's doubtful that I'll spend too much time on this until that other fic is done, but I thought is should post this to let readers know that I havn't forgotten about it, and it will be updating, it's just a matter of time. The other fic that I'm writing is approaching the end anyway, so it shouldn't be long. Have faith! Have faaaaaaiiiith!!! *starts singing "Faith"*
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It had been raining in Ankh-Morpork for days. It had started out as light showers, scattered during the night, merely heavy clouds during the day. It had turned into a steady rain and on this night, it had finally turned into a downpour, as if the gods were draining their tub water accumulated during the last ten years in this one night. It was that strange time between the end of the night and the beginning of the day, when even during a normal, dry period, the streets would be almost empty, the early-risers just waking up and the leftovers from the night were staggering home: hopeless drunks finally forced to exit the bars and the last lonely whores who had to go home without any profits.
The rain drummed steadily on the cobblestones, until it became a monotone, white noise that was no longer noticed. Presently, another noise was noticeable above the rain, like a magnified accent of the steady staccato: the sound of hooves, plodding slowly and steadily through the streets. Through the shimmering gray curtain a figure became visible: a large, wide horse, weariness visible in its every dragging step, laden with bags that hung limp and nearly empty upon its back. A heavy cloak-shrouded figure whose stride was just as reluctant led the animal, hood pulled low over the hidden face, shoulders slumped.
The two approached the gates to the patrician's palace. The two sullen guards, startled to see anyone on the streets in such weather, emerged from their card game in the guardhouse.
"Who goes there?" one called gruffly.
"I need to see the patrician." The voice was devoid of emotion, but a slight tremor underneath the careful monotone revealed the lack of such detachment.
"Sorry, no can do, kid. No one enters the palace without authorization."
From within the visitor's robe was drawn a crumpled piece of paper, which the guard took and opened. He scrutinized it, seeing the patrician's seal at the bottom of the hastily-written message.
After squinting at it for a few minutes, and having his fellow guard squint at it for a few minutes, they mutually decided that it wasn't worth arguing over while standing in the rain. "All right, just don't try to kill anyone."
"I won't make any guarantees." The traveler murmured before passing the guards and heading through the now-open gates.
*Two weeks earlier. . .*
"I don't know about this. . ." the man grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "The patrician has always had me paid well. And. . . well, you know, no one has ever gotten away with trying to do away with Lord Vetinari. He's got spies everywhere, you know."
"And aren't we lucky that we managed to procure one of them for ourselves?" said the thin, spindly man on the other side of the desk. He gestured toward the desk's surface, indicating what might be found there if his hired flunky was successful, "I can get you out of the country with more money than you know what to do with as soon as the job is done."
"I dunno. . ." the man chewed on a fingernail, "Even if this works, how are you going to hang on to him? The City Night Watch're tougher than they used to be. That Vimes character, he's the cause of it all. I hear they've got a werewolf and some dwarf that wears a dress and-"
"Why don't you let us worry about all that. As long as you get your job done. . ."
The man sighed, eyeing the other's long fingers as they tapped, spider- like, on the surface of the desk. "What are you planning on doing with him? You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"No. I can assure you of that."
"Well . . . as long as I'm not aiding in a murder."
"No. Definitely not a murder."
"All right then. I'll do it."
Vetinari, with a fluid gesture of his thin hand, signed the parchment, sealing the trade deal with Lancre. The negotiations had been tedious. Apparently the new king was a complete bubble-head and hadn't the faintest idea of how to go about things. So he let a trade advisor do the negotiations for him. Unfortunately, this advisor was one of the best, his intellect and capacity for scheming almost equal to Vetinari's own. One might say it was a battle of titans with impeccable manners. Eventually, Vetinari got the better end of the deal, and the other negotiator slunk back to Lancre to lick his wounds. The only thing left to do was to send the paperwork to his end for his signature on Vetinari's copy.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Enter." Said Vetinari absently, recognizing the particular tone and pressure of Drumknott's knuckles on the door.
"Will you be taking you supper, sir?"
"Have it sent in. Then you may be dismissed."
Drumknott nodded silently and backed out. He really needn't have asked at all, but respected the formality of the thing.
Vetinari neatly placed the parchment in his version of the 'out' pile and shuffled through more papers, seeing all too many matters that demanded his immediate attention. Not that he minded. Legal matters could so consume his mind that the outer world would fade away before neatly written letters on a sheet of paper: proper, neat and controlled. The constant maintenance of such an environment was one of the many keys to his success as a patrician, and to his power. Losing control was a bad thing. It led to mistakes, and mistakes were one thing he couldn't afford.
But.
That wizard. . . he had certainly lost control there. What had he been thinking? Lord Vetinari does not indulge in the pleasures that so bother the common folk. He was above such things. Had it really only been three months ago? It seemed like an age. An age during which he did his work, took his meals by himself and walked quiet, cold hallways, footsteps echoing faintly, the air smelling of the coming winter. He couldn't even look forward to a distraction from that energetic disaster, the girl Brian. He had tried to convince himself, innumerable times, to firmly tell her, once and for all, that the Patrician's Palace was not her hotel, and he was certainly not her bellboy. But the thought of never seeing that blue-eared feline bounding down the halls and bumping into things depressed him, though he would never show it. Besides, it's not like she would listen to any command of his anyway. She had a tendency to hear what she wanted to. But she was off, now, wandering about as she was wont to do.
There was another, more timid knock on the door.
"Enter."
The maid came in and deposited a tray on his desk. Bobbing a quick curtsey, she left.
The food was simple, the way he liked it: bread, broth, some steamed vegetables and a goblet of water.
His eyes focused back on his work, skimming documents for the important words and phrases, a necessary adaptation for someone in his line of work. He absently reached for the bowl of broth, bringing a spoonful to his lips and sipping it carefully. His eyes unfocused and left the paper. His brows furrowed. He leaned forward and sniffed the broth that had left an odd, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He abruptly stood up. It could be poison, a drug, or simply a bad batch of broth. He wasn't about to take any chances. He reached for the cord that would summon a servant, trusting that he hadn't drunk enough of the broth to have any affect on him.
Another knock came on the door, this time more of a pounding: something urgent.
"Yes,"
He recognized the burly, bearded man as one of his most trusted and well- paid spies. His rough appearance was deceiving; he'd had a fine education and had been honored to serve the patrician.
"Lord Vetinari! I have come to warn you! Someone may have drugged your dinner!"
"Yes, I presumed as much from the taste. Whoever was responsible should be reprimanded for shoddy work."
"You could taste it?"
"Indeed."
"I guess you took enough, then."
Vetinari only had time to narrow his eyes before they went out of focus and the last thing he saw was the carpet rushing up to meet him.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Bad Tinselcat! You're doing it again! Bad, bad, bad! *slaps self on wrist*. Hang offs. . . I hate it when other authors do it, but I do it all the time. Hypocritical, much? I think so. . . So, in case you didn't read the note at the beginning, it may take me a some time to start regular updates on this baby, but they are coming, so don't worry. *waves to all the Discworld fans* I'm baaaaaaaaack!!!!
Rating: PG Summary: Standard Tinselcat-style teaser. Disclaimer: Vimes, Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork and Discworld are creations and property of the amazing Terry Pratchett *bows*, and no profit is being made from the use of the copyrighted material (if there was, I wouldn't have to worry about paying off my student loans, dammit!!).
Author's Note: Okay, right now I'm trying to finish up another fic for another fandom, but I decided to get this teaser up because I read a review of "The Politics Of" where someone was concerned that the sequel hadn't been posted yet (Trust me, I was as shocked as anyone that someone would even *want* to read a sequel! *tips hat to concerned reviewer*). It's doubtful that I'll spend too much time on this until that other fic is done, but I thought is should post this to let readers know that I havn't forgotten about it, and it will be updating, it's just a matter of time. The other fic that I'm writing is approaching the end anyway, so it shouldn't be long. Have faith! Have faaaaaaiiiith!!! *starts singing "Faith"*
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
It had been raining in Ankh-Morpork for days. It had started out as light showers, scattered during the night, merely heavy clouds during the day. It had turned into a steady rain and on this night, it had finally turned into a downpour, as if the gods were draining their tub water accumulated during the last ten years in this one night. It was that strange time between the end of the night and the beginning of the day, when even during a normal, dry period, the streets would be almost empty, the early-risers just waking up and the leftovers from the night were staggering home: hopeless drunks finally forced to exit the bars and the last lonely whores who had to go home without any profits.
The rain drummed steadily on the cobblestones, until it became a monotone, white noise that was no longer noticed. Presently, another noise was noticeable above the rain, like a magnified accent of the steady staccato: the sound of hooves, plodding slowly and steadily through the streets. Through the shimmering gray curtain a figure became visible: a large, wide horse, weariness visible in its every dragging step, laden with bags that hung limp and nearly empty upon its back. A heavy cloak-shrouded figure whose stride was just as reluctant led the animal, hood pulled low over the hidden face, shoulders slumped.
The two approached the gates to the patrician's palace. The two sullen guards, startled to see anyone on the streets in such weather, emerged from their card game in the guardhouse.
"Who goes there?" one called gruffly.
"I need to see the patrician." The voice was devoid of emotion, but a slight tremor underneath the careful monotone revealed the lack of such detachment.
"Sorry, no can do, kid. No one enters the palace without authorization."
From within the visitor's robe was drawn a crumpled piece of paper, which the guard took and opened. He scrutinized it, seeing the patrician's seal at the bottom of the hastily-written message.
After squinting at it for a few minutes, and having his fellow guard squint at it for a few minutes, they mutually decided that it wasn't worth arguing over while standing in the rain. "All right, just don't try to kill anyone."
"I won't make any guarantees." The traveler murmured before passing the guards and heading through the now-open gates.
*Two weeks earlier. . .*
"I don't know about this. . ." the man grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "The patrician has always had me paid well. And. . . well, you know, no one has ever gotten away with trying to do away with Lord Vetinari. He's got spies everywhere, you know."
"And aren't we lucky that we managed to procure one of them for ourselves?" said the thin, spindly man on the other side of the desk. He gestured toward the desk's surface, indicating what might be found there if his hired flunky was successful, "I can get you out of the country with more money than you know what to do with as soon as the job is done."
"I dunno. . ." the man chewed on a fingernail, "Even if this works, how are you going to hang on to him? The City Night Watch're tougher than they used to be. That Vimes character, he's the cause of it all. I hear they've got a werewolf and some dwarf that wears a dress and-"
"Why don't you let us worry about all that. As long as you get your job done. . ."
The man sighed, eyeing the other's long fingers as they tapped, spider- like, on the surface of the desk. "What are you planning on doing with him? You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"No. I can assure you of that."
"Well . . . as long as I'm not aiding in a murder."
"No. Definitely not a murder."
"All right then. I'll do it."
Vetinari, with a fluid gesture of his thin hand, signed the parchment, sealing the trade deal with Lancre. The negotiations had been tedious. Apparently the new king was a complete bubble-head and hadn't the faintest idea of how to go about things. So he let a trade advisor do the negotiations for him. Unfortunately, this advisor was one of the best, his intellect and capacity for scheming almost equal to Vetinari's own. One might say it was a battle of titans with impeccable manners. Eventually, Vetinari got the better end of the deal, and the other negotiator slunk back to Lancre to lick his wounds. The only thing left to do was to send the paperwork to his end for his signature on Vetinari's copy.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Enter." Said Vetinari absently, recognizing the particular tone and pressure of Drumknott's knuckles on the door.
"Will you be taking you supper, sir?"
"Have it sent in. Then you may be dismissed."
Drumknott nodded silently and backed out. He really needn't have asked at all, but respected the formality of the thing.
Vetinari neatly placed the parchment in his version of the 'out' pile and shuffled through more papers, seeing all too many matters that demanded his immediate attention. Not that he minded. Legal matters could so consume his mind that the outer world would fade away before neatly written letters on a sheet of paper: proper, neat and controlled. The constant maintenance of such an environment was one of the many keys to his success as a patrician, and to his power. Losing control was a bad thing. It led to mistakes, and mistakes were one thing he couldn't afford.
But.
That wizard. . . he had certainly lost control there. What had he been thinking? Lord Vetinari does not indulge in the pleasures that so bother the common folk. He was above such things. Had it really only been three months ago? It seemed like an age. An age during which he did his work, took his meals by himself and walked quiet, cold hallways, footsteps echoing faintly, the air smelling of the coming winter. He couldn't even look forward to a distraction from that energetic disaster, the girl Brian. He had tried to convince himself, innumerable times, to firmly tell her, once and for all, that the Patrician's Palace was not her hotel, and he was certainly not her bellboy. But the thought of never seeing that blue-eared feline bounding down the halls and bumping into things depressed him, though he would never show it. Besides, it's not like she would listen to any command of his anyway. She had a tendency to hear what she wanted to. But she was off, now, wandering about as she was wont to do.
There was another, more timid knock on the door.
"Enter."
The maid came in and deposited a tray on his desk. Bobbing a quick curtsey, she left.
The food was simple, the way he liked it: bread, broth, some steamed vegetables and a goblet of water.
His eyes focused back on his work, skimming documents for the important words and phrases, a necessary adaptation for someone in his line of work. He absently reached for the bowl of broth, bringing a spoonful to his lips and sipping it carefully. His eyes unfocused and left the paper. His brows furrowed. He leaned forward and sniffed the broth that had left an odd, bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He abruptly stood up. It could be poison, a drug, or simply a bad batch of broth. He wasn't about to take any chances. He reached for the cord that would summon a servant, trusting that he hadn't drunk enough of the broth to have any affect on him.
Another knock came on the door, this time more of a pounding: something urgent.
"Yes,"
He recognized the burly, bearded man as one of his most trusted and well- paid spies. His rough appearance was deceiving; he'd had a fine education and had been honored to serve the patrician.
"Lord Vetinari! I have come to warn you! Someone may have drugged your dinner!"
"Yes, I presumed as much from the taste. Whoever was responsible should be reprimanded for shoddy work."
"You could taste it?"
"Indeed."
"I guess you took enough, then."
Vetinari only had time to narrow his eyes before they went out of focus and the last thing he saw was the carpet rushing up to meet him.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Bad Tinselcat! You're doing it again! Bad, bad, bad! *slaps self on wrist*. Hang offs. . . I hate it when other authors do it, but I do it all the time. Hypocritical, much? I think so. . . So, in case you didn't read the note at the beginning, it may take me a some time to start regular updates on this baby, but they are coming, so don't worry. *waves to all the Discworld fans* I'm baaaaaaaaack!!!!