This is a fic over Jonathan Teatime's missing eye.
It was raining. That, all in all, summed up the city of Ankh-Morpork. A lanky and unfortunately proportioned boy trudged through an open garden inside the very scaleable walls of the Assassin's Guild. He was on his normal route between his Assorted Knives course and Exotic Poisons classrooms, the latter of which being his destination. His irises were the size of pinheads, surrounded by seas of white.
When Jonathancame tohis desk, he set out his chemical set and sat ready to be taught. The teacher, standing by the door to greet the students, walked back to his podium and wrote down the students he hadn't seen. "Anigan's in the doctor's again, I suppose? And Monatiar'll be in the Deans office, for putting him there…No Teatime today?"
"It's 'Teh-ah-tim-ah,' sir, I'm sure I told you before." The teacher leapt almost four feet in the air, six inches higher than the last had. Teatime wrote it downin a notebook.
"Ye gods, man! How did you get in this time?"
"Oh, you still leave the window open towards the garden, sir." He nonchalantly set a few beakers to boil.
"I left it open because there are bars over it, Teatime!" he ran to the back room, to find the grate on the floor and a large piece of cloth covering the frame from the wind.
"'Teh-ah-tim-eh', sir, I don't see how it's that hard…Oh, and you'll need a few new bolts. Some of them cracked and broke after I had gotten almost all the others off."
The poor chemicals professor tried to calm down. The boy was only fourteen, though! He and his classmates weren't to be taught stealth entry for another few years yet! Worst of all, he didn't see how anything he did might go against the guild rules, or even common courtesy!
It was going to be a long four years until thatlunatic graduated, he sighed to himself.
Well, that was fun, Jonathan thought pleasantly to himself. It was now no more than foggy, and he was eating his lunch with a considering expression on his face. All that was left for classes today was Traps and Other Dangers. Teatime was actually getting on well with their teacher for this week.
The last one was almost out of the hospital, actually. In hindsight, the caltrops test probably meant that the students were meant to disable them, instead of hiding them while still prepared. It had been in case anyone followed him, he had argued. It wasn't against the rules or anything. It should have got him some extra credit.
Some people just don't see the beauty of the world.
His mind was complicated, and, contrary to outward evidence, a finely tuned thing. Everything was balanced on top of everything else. They were links in a chain, perhaps, and the symphony couldn't be off by even a little or else everything would break. And the people around him were the discords. So, naturally and quite perfunctorily, he disposed of them. Oh, yes, he could see that they served a purpose, and knew things that sometimes he didn't know. Once they didn't, and served as a possible threat to upset his mental tightrope walking, they were…inhumed. Such brittle, brittle things, too, for having become the dominant species on the Disc…
It's odd, certainly, he mused. That decided, he tossed his trash away and wandered off among the corridors. The other kids gave him a wide path, turning to watch him and whispering behind their hands to each other. He was…displeased. He was better than them, in sports and studies alike, but they still acted as though they were better than him.
As though he were inferior.
His mother had said he was different. He was special. She said that his father wasn't his real father; he was the son of a god. Mighty Blind Io, whose eyes are so all-encompassing and far-reaching that he knew what everyone was doing at any time, and could strike them down at a whim. It was his blood running in Jonathan's veins.
Actually, now that he thought about it, that had been a horrible thing to tell a three-year-old. He hadn't understood then, but when he told his father, the man had gotten angry. He had tried to hurt his mother, and little Jonathan couldn't abide that. But…after dispatching his father, he didn't want to resist the urge to kill again. So, later, as an orphan, he had been sent to the Guild of Assassins, because it was a well-respected upbringing and he would…adjust well.
Now, eleven years later, Jonathan Teatime had had no friends at all, and was the top of his class. He had almost enough credits to graduate, four years early, but Deputy Headmaster Downey refused to let him test early until his legal probation was up.
"Should I?"
"Yeah, go for it! That freak deserves it!"
"What if he…you know…inhumes me?"
"He wouldn't, would he? No one's that skewed."
"All those stories he tells are probably lies."
"Yeah, even after what he did to the Cat House's Mascot?"
"They found the other half soon enough, didn't they?"
"Quiet, here he comes! Mona, I dare you to tell him!"
"All right, all right, bugger off then, I don't need him suspicious!"
"Hi, Jonathan!" A short, brown haired girl waved to Teatime.
"Hello, Mona." Jonathan blinked. Wasn't she one of the popular people? How did she know his name?
"Listen, Jonathan, we're all going to hang out after classes at the new Burleigh and Stronginthearms display. You want to come?"
"Sure…?"
"Alright! But, first, you have to pass the test. Since you're the top of the class, it shouldn't be a problem for you, right?"
"No…um…what's the test?"
"Oh, well, you have to…you know…" her voice dropped to a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "...inhume someone. A big someone. We were thinking along the lines of one of the Patrician's aides?"
"And everyone else has already passed?"
"Oh, yeah, but we got our parents to cover it up for us. I'm sure the Guild'll take care of it."
"…Oh…okay…?"
"That's great! Remember, you have to do it before five o'clock today. You've already passed the physical exams, so you have a free period before then, don't you?"
"…Yeah…"
"Okay! You have to take out one named…Havelock Vetinari. Bring us proof he's dead, too, when you come!" Mona hurried away, stopped, spun around, and rushed back.
"You need this! It's a file on that Vetinari guy. Um…I have to go, I'll, uh, see you there, alright? Yeah…bye!"
"…Um?" Jonathan looked down at the iconograph on top of the folder. It showed a calm-looking man, maybe in his mid-twenties. He slipped it all into his bag, thinking. Havelock Vetinari? Why do they want him gone?
"Oh my gods, he's going to get in so much trouble!"
"No one's allowed to inhume someone unless they're getting paid, and not until they've graduated!"
"Good job, Mona!"
"Sod off, all of you!"
"What?"
"He'll kill me when he finds out!"
"Oh, come on, no he won't!"
"Well…we're still going to go to see the new crossbow, aren't we?"
"Yeah, yeah…hey, who thinks he'll actually show?"
"I do."
"Who said that-" There was a cacophony of screams and gasps as Teatime appeared.
"Oh…um…Hey, Jonathan."
"I've been sent to tell you. You'll all be late to class."
Almost time, he thought to himself, suspended by a cord and his own strength under a porch. This was one of the richest and cleanest parts of town, albeit it had the highest crime rate next to the Shades. He had been able to set up a triple-tiered tripwire system, set to release one of Bloody Stupid Johnson's more serviceable inventions, a hair curler. When employed, it generally snapped a person's neck.
On or about his person, he also carried; three throwing knives, a crossbow, five different poisons, thirteen darts and their blowgun, and a complex mirror system for seeing around corners. He was a very prepared person.
Ten seconds to three sixteen. The file had said that Vetinari was very particular about leaving the office at three sixteen. Teatime figured it had something to do with him having been an Assassin previously. The business formed people oddly, so that they developed...unusual idiosyncrasies. Oft times they did not fit well into any other job.
He looked at his portable imp, which was signing numbers with its hands-Three, two, and one…The door on the end of the street opened silently and a young man, approximately twice his age, walked out with muffled and pious footsteps. Here was the target.
He had a perfectly trimmed goatee beginning, and his short dark hair was arranged perfectly to scream to the world that here was a natural born straightedge-measured leader. It was a wonder he wasn't of higher office or maybe the Patrician already. Jonathan suddenly had a stark realization that he probably really didn't want to know.
There were dark shadows in the city's political past.
Vetinari was approaching the tripwire setup. Four feet from the trigger, he stooped to pick up something unseen from the ground. Squinting, Teatime was sure there was nothing there, but the man apparently spotted more of the things and crept forward to obtain them. This happened a dozen times, with him about to straighten only to duck back down. Afterward, he strolled down the street, jangling almost a dollar's worth of tuppence, and he was a good two feet past the trap
Jonathan looked on in shock. Had the target honestly just bypassed a triple-tiered tripwire by accident? No matter what gods were prayed to, even on a daily basis, that was impossible, wasn't it?
How good of luck could one man have? He might have done it on purpose, of course. Old Assassins had a bit of a knack, or so he'd heard. Deciding that it didn't matter either way, Teatime brought out his trusty knife and flicked his wrist, sending it flying. There would be no escape for him this time, certainly.
Vetinari swiveled around on his heel, holding some sort of tough cloth.Twisting it sideways, he suddenly flashed it in a spiral and held it vertically. Stunned that he had been found out, Jonathan watched with wide eyes as Vetinari let go with his bottom hand.
The knife snapped and skittered across the cobblestones, the sound breaking the developing silence and running fingernails up Teatime's backbone.
"I…don't believe anyone would order my inhumation," the man said, taking a clipped and definite step, "And this has been too sloppily set up for it to have been a graduated Assassin. So, I presume, you are still a student?"
Reluctantly, Jonathan dropped into the street. His cloak was gratefully silent, and he prided himself on knowing how to walk perfectly. He slowly approached his target, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a sixteen-year-old pick up the neglected knife.
Vetinari held out his hand, and the other boy quickly shuffled up and deposited the weapon. "Wonse, do ready a towel. This may become a bit…messy."Wonse dutifully took a cloth from somewhere and held it to his side, ready for action and oozing a clerk's patience to wait for it.
Vetinari was holding a knife…but Teatime still had his other weapons. There was still a chance he could win, right? He searched for the uncertainty of a nervous killer in his opponent's eyes. There had to be something…he doesn't want to kill me…
It wasn't there. Jonathan searched for something he could exploit, a weakness to fiddle with, but it was like scrabbling for cracks to bring down a glacier.
"Well, Mister…" Vetinari looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to fill in the sentence for him.
"…Teh-ah-tim-eh…" Jonathan's teeth ground as he grumbled, unused to being the one catering to another's expectations.
"Indeed? I'm very sorry for you. Mr. Teh-ah-tim-eh, I am swiftly becoming tardy to a much-looked-forward-to meeting, and I holding a knife, and, as your research most likely informed you, I am a trained Assassin. You are the only one in my way, and I don't care about killing people or not. What is your course of action?"
Jonathon considered it carefully, turning it over and over in his head. He could leave…and not ever be accepted by the other students. Also, it was against the laws of…well…Assassinhood. If you fail, do not return.
He swallowed, suddenly unsure of his above-average skills. Could he beat this man, whom could suddenly turn his gaze to steel and make him feel like the child he actually was? This, he reflected, was the gaze of a soon-to-be powerful man. He knew he had to go through with the challenge, and quickly slipped the blade ofa remaining knife into his bottle of poison.
"Very well, Mr. Teh-ah-tim-ah, we will fight, but you will almost definitely lose. Did you enjoy your life until now? Ah, well, I'm sure I needn't know. Collecting information is merely an interest of mine." He stepped back with his left foot poised, and leapt towards him.
He hadn't been expecting this! Jonathan crouched, swiping his right heel over the ground until it caught purchase behind him, and waited until Vetinari was almost upon him before springing away.
And felt all of his other weapons slip and fall, their ties and lashings cut through too fast to see.
His opponent landed kneeling, turning aroundimmediately and aiming his knife at the young boy. Teatime whirled, steadied himself, and launched his onlyblade towards the clerk's chest.
Vetinari turned to his right, letting the weapon pass him by, and flung his own.
Jonathan watched it, as it slowed to glacial speed, inching through the air. He urged his legs to move, his abdomen to pull him down, and his arms to cover his head. His reflexes weren't fast enough. The blade was going to hit him, and he couldn't do anything about it, he was trapped here…
Jonathan Teatime watched a knife, at snail's pace, as it excruciatingly embed itself in his eye, a prisoner of his own body and mind.
He slumped into a decrepit building, pulling the worm-eaten door closed behind him, and leaned against the wall, gulping air in huge breaths. A four-foot bag of what seemed to be potatoes shifted slightly, and rolled over.
"I need your…expertise, Igor." Teatime panted, wincing at the pain in his ribs, and then doubled over in the fireworks from manipulating his eye. He had been staggering through the streets for close to twenty minutes, trying to find the home of his family's old Igor.
"Mithter Teh-ah-tim-eh? It'th been yearth! Are you hurt, thur? Oh, I thee, your eye, and are there any other dermal abrathionth?" Igor had straightened up, losing roughly three inches in height, but not in shape, and was hobbling over to examine his obviously suffering new patient.
"My…chest…feels like a troll…just walked all over me! Ye gods, I feel like I'm going to die!" Instead, he settled for vomiting, and passed out.
There…was a light. It was very insistent. Jonathan tried to keep his eyes closed, but sausages were prying the lids apart. His iris skittered to the edge, escaping the intruder.
"Pleathe, thur, I need to test if you can see in thith eye. Pay attentthun, now. How many fingerth are in that jar over there?"
"Um…three?" Teatime was going along with it, until he came to his senses with a mild explosion. "They aren't mine, are they?"
"No, thur, no. But, I mutht thay, thur, what happened? I haven't had that much damage to a pathient without a coroner prethent." Igor was there. It appeared, to Jonathan's pain-detached thoughts, that the previous sausages had, in fact, been Igor's own fingers. At least, the ones attached to him.
"I…got in a fight. And lost."
Igor rolled his eyes. "Obviouthly. Anyway, for current events, there'th a new Patrithian."
"What!" Teatime shot off the bed, and looked wildly around before succumbing to the nagging feeling that he should be dead and falling back.
"A new guy, uthed to be a clerk, he'th got a funny name. Vetinuri, I think?"
"That'th - damn, I mean that's - the guy I fought. He threw a knife at me! When I was down, he kicked me in the ribs! The bastard!"
"And you thould be grateful that'th all he did, then. You've lotht that eye and I had to replace three shattered ribs. It'th been three dayth, I hope you know."
"I've missed classes then? That's worse! The tests were yesterday!"
"Then…I thuppothe you thould get back, thur, and quickly."
Teatime was already at the door, his suffering forgotten. "Igor…don't…tell anyone, alright? Please."
"Oh, no, thur, not a word. We Igorth have very thrict rules about Igor-pathient confidenthiality, thur."
But Teatime was already gone.
Twenty years later, his Lord Patrician Havelock Vetinari opened the Assassin Guild's report on missing, lost, or vaguely wondered after Assassins for the month. Jonathan Teatime was on the third page, barely mentioned after some man that had been sent after Commander Vimes.
He would have to ask Vimes about the frequent disappearances, Vetinari reminded himself. Somehow, it usually happened after he had spent the night and an unlucky soul had seen them together in the morning.
Well, well, that boy he had beaten within an inch of his life all those years ago was missing. He folded the report back over, and set it on his desk, steepling his fingers in thought.
"Ah, more's the better," he told the empty room.
Please Review! (I love both Teatime and Vetinari beyind reason.)