Final Pains

By: Twist

A/n: Do not take this seriously. Some day I'm going to stop writing this, because eventually readers will learn not to take my stuff seriously. But ah well. Anyway, this is a fun look into Haveock's last few days at the Guild. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I got nothin'.

-

"Smooth, dog-botherer, very smooth."

Havelock decided it was probably in his best interests to just stay where he was. If Downey was going to beat him up he would rather it be sooner than later; the medic's office was within crawling distance. He could probably even yell for help loud enough to be heard there, should it be needed.

He coughed slightly when Downey shoved him up against the wall, if only on the basis that too much air exiting a body at one time is bad for aforementioned body. Downey looked bloody furious.

"You know, Dog-Botherer, you'd just better be thankful I've let you survive to see seventh year," the much larger boy growled. "But I think it may be high time for that beating you so rightfully deserve."

"Well, she is a lesbian," Havelock pointed out. Many years later, he would reflect that that really wasn't the best choice of words for the occasion. The masters did eventually manage to pull them apart, though, so it was probably all right.

What was not alright, not by a long shot, was Havelock's right wrist. No human limb should ever look like that under any circumstances, a very dazed Havelock Vetinari thought as the Traps and Deadfalls master hoisted him to his feet and steered him towards the medic. He was vaguely aware of entering the office, hearing a disapproving cluck, and being deposited in a chair.

"Finally got into it with the Downey boy?" said someone off to his left. The feud between Vetinari and Downey was famous throughout the school; people had been placing bets since fourth year on which student would come out victorious should it ever come to blows. And it looked like those who had favored Downey were going to be paid off.

"This is so wrong," Havelock mumbled while the medic forced him to drink some brandy. "So, so wrong."

"Just drink it boy, you'll be fine."

"I'm losing," Havelock protested as the Traps and Deadfalls master watched on in something between fascination and pity. "I'm not supposed to lose. I don't lose."

"Hold still boy, that's the ticket. Nice clean break; you were very lucky there," the medic said automatically as he applied the splint.

Havelock lost track of time. What he didn't lose track of was the score; Downey was winning. Which was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. He continued to stress this to the other two people in his immediate vicinity. Eventually the medic lost patience and knocked the mumbling student out, which was when Havelock got the most deciding idea of his life.

-

"I'm sorry, Havelock, but there's nothing can be done," Dr. Follet, Master of Assassins, said gravely. "It's stated that you must repeat the seventh year if you are unable to take the final."

"I'm at the top of all my classes!" Havelock protested, though at this point there wasn't much heart in it. "I couldn't just, you know, finish up in the summer?"

"I'm sorry, boy, but you've heard the rules at least twelve times now. No final means another year of tuition."

"Dr. Follett, I'm not sure you understand," Havelock whined, aware that now he was just hoping to wear the man down. "My wrist is broken. You saw the medic's report. Two more weeks, that's all I ask."

"No, Havelock." Follett sighed and leaned on his desk. "If it makes you feel better, Downey's in the same boat as you are; you two did quite the number on each other," he added with a chuckle.

The previous remark did nothing for Havelock's morale. "I'm not going through another year with him," he said firmly. "Absolutely not." With a scowl, he slouched back in his chair, crossed his arms and glared at Follett.

"Well it looks like you have to," Follet snapped. "And stop staring; it makes people uneasy. I've had more eyeballing complaints about you this year than anything else, including insubordination."

"Fine," Havelock growled. "Fine. I'll just take the final."

"Don't be stupid, boy, you'll kill yourself."

"I can do it," Havelock said confidently, though he wasn't so sure. Yes, he could conceal himself like anything, but climbing with the splint . . . ?

"Havelock, no student has ever even attempted the final with any sort of injury and this includes, to date, sprained toes and hangnails. Certainly not a broken wrist."

"I can do it," he insisted. "Listen, it's ridiculous that I should have to repeat a year. I mean, if I get in trouble, I can just run, right?"

"Havelock," Follett said gravely, "you'll never be able to show your face ever again in Ankh-Moporkian high society if you pull a runner in the middle of your final exam." And this he was especially concerned about; Snapcase was obviously going to have to go, and Roberta obviously seemed to think her nephew showed great promise . . .

"I speak five languages; it's not like I'll be up the Ankh without a paddle," the boy scoffed, rising and making for the door.

Something inside Follett clicked. Well, damn the boy, let him take the final. If by some miracle he survived and Roberta shoved him into power, he'd have a lot more to deal with than some walls, traps and a broken wrist.

"Your final's on Wednesday, and you'd better show up!" Follet called after him as the boy stepped out of the office. He paused a moment and then pulled a wad of paper and a pen from his desk.

Dear Roberta, he began, it gives me the deepest grief to inform you that your nephew, Havelock Vetinari, attempted suicide and succeeded Wednesday . . .

--

Wednesday night was uncomfortably warm. Havelock decided to beat the heat by taking minumum equipment and the stairs. His examiner was waiting for him at the bottom. It was one of the younger masters; Cruces was his name, Havelock remembered.

"Stairs, Vetinari?" he scowled, as Havelock strolled toward him. Havelock shrugged.

"Wasn't aware I was being graded, sir."

Cruces grunted. "You weren't. Just making an observation." He pulled out a clipboard and made a few notes before flipping to the second page. "Let's answer some questions first."

"I'm game," Vetinari said easily, grinning faintly. He noted happily that it was somewhat hazy outside.

Cruces' scowl grew deeper. "Name the standard material for climbing rope," he snapped.

"Mixture of cotton, hemp and small amounts of silk, sir. Black."

"Why not plain hemp?"

"It lacks suppleness, smoothness and silence. And it's harder to dye."

"What color should be worn on clear winter nights?"

"Black to very dark blue sir," Havelock answered evenly, though he knew better. Lighter grays worked like magic.

"The maximum number of knives permitted inside the city walls on any one person after nine o'clock at night?"

Havelock fought to keep a straight face; his aunt had told him a joke about that once, but he wasn't sure Cruces would find it particularly funny. He erred on the side of caution. "None, sir, unless one is an Assassin, in which case the maximum is twelve."

"Very good." Cruces let the paper fall and tucked the clipboard under his arm. He spared Havelock a curious glance. "You are the student with the broken wrist, correct?"

"Yes," Havelock said neutrally.

"I was told by Dr. Follett himself not to go easy on you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, sir," Havelock said smoothly.

"Very well," Cruces said, glancing at Havelock suspiciously. "You will be taking the Small Gods route. Good luck," he added, though Havelock was fairly certain he didn't mean it.

More for Cruces than anyone, Havelock started on the Small Gods route, albeit from the ground. He was about ten yards away from Cruces when he casually stepped into a shadow, and vanished.

Cruces peered after him. Certainly, the boy had gotten unusually high marks in stealthy movement, but he had simply vanished. Not admitting to himself that he was uneasy, Cruces decided that the boy must have started on his route. He strolled off towards the destination; not taking the roofs himself. He knew how to get there from the streets.

Havelock did not. But from his place in the shadows, he was in perfect position to follow Cruces undetected. He slipped along behind the master, following his every step. Vetinari paused only briefly from his tracking at the cemetery of Small Gods, paying brief homage to those that had Been There, most especially John Keel. It was a short stop though, the trail had to stay hot.

Havelock was merely ten to twelve steps behind the very unaware Cruces while the master crept up the backstairs in an apartment building. Havelock knew where they were now, he would just rather not open the door for himself. He would have to though, he reflected. Now that he was here without even bumping his injured wrist, he had to figure out what to do next. Cruces had the passing slip and check in his pocket, signed and dated; Havelock just had to get them without Cruces accusing him of cheating.

He heard the appropraite door slam a story up. He was thinking at full capacity and, unusually, coming up with nothing. He bit his lip and peered around himself. His eyes fell on a very unassuming inanimate object directly across from him. A memory rushed back, and so did an idea.

Havelock Vetinari grinned wide in the darkness, a lone crescent of teeth glowing.

-

Cruces wasn't aware that Havelock was looting his pockets; the two-by-four had taken care of that. It lacked something in subtlety and basic Assassin techniques, Havelock had to admit, but he was pretty sure he could justify its use.

He smirked to himself as he pulled the slip and check from Cruces pocket. Hopefully he would get to keep them. He rose to leave, shoving his prizes into his pocket, when curiosity overcame him and he pulled back the blanket on the bed. There was a dummy there, of course. But Havelock was nearly positive that all the dummies weren't holding little signs that said, in the headmaster's very precise handwriting, Look Behind You. Havelock winced and turned.

"I am not amused," Dr. Follett said sternly.

-

"So, Mr. Downey, as I'm sure you know, your refusal to take the final has resulted in the necessity to take the seventh year over again."

"Dr. Follett, I had three broken ribs," Downey protested grouchily.

"However," Follett continued, "the board and I have conferenced and decided that we can perhaps be a bit . . . unconventional . . . in this matter. This summer you will simply be tutored on the important points necessary for your final, and will take the final in the fall."

Downey was shocked. "Th - Thank you, Dr. Follet," he stammered.

"You will be tutored every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday from the hours of one in the afternoon to five in the afternoon, with night lessons to be arranged as you go," Follett said smoothly, glancing at some papers on his desk. "You will be tutored in my office, and I will be present at all times."

"So you'll be tutoring me then, sir?" Downey asked, hardly able to believe his luck.

"Oh no," Follett said, stifling a grin and pulling out a report. "I have papers to grade. No, we've decided that you might benefit most from a qualified Assassin that's about your age." He looked up. "You can come in now, Havelock."

"No . . ." Downey whispered as Havelock Vetinari sulked in, stood across the table from Downey, practically threw a report at the shocked student, crossed his arms and glared.

"Read it," he growled.

"Dr. Follett, you can be serious," Downey moaned. "He's qualified?"

"And he'll be tutoring you, yes," Follett said evenly without looking up. "Don't let me deter you boys."

"Read. The. Report." Havelock threw himself into the chair across from Downey and continued glaring. Downey returned it briefly before picking the report up.

"Hang on - Inappropriate use of the two-by-four?" Downey looked up, confused. He glanced to Dr. Follett.

"Just read it," Havelock snapped loudly.

Dear Roberta, Follet wrote, trying to keep himself from grinning, I am extremely grateful for your brilliant solution; not only will it be beneficial, I feel, but it will most certainly keep me amused for the rest of the summer . . .

END