Title: lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

Summary: The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

Chapter 6: August 30: Muddy, with a chance of fish

Rust, thought Vimes disgustedly as he chased another unlicensed thief—they were all unlicensed now, really—down the street. The man should've left what was well enough alone. Don't touch it if it's not broken. Vimes would've been somewhat amused to find that that was Vetinari's motto. There were lots of things Rust could've learned from Vetinari, in fact, and not dismantling the Thieves' Guild during his first day in office was one of them.

The air blurred in front of Vimes, and suddenly Vetinari was there. It had not been a good day. It wasn't getting any better. Vimes expressed this sentiment with a cry of "Bugger!" and tried to stop his legs even as he plowed into the man.

Vetinari reached behind him and grabbed a cart, using it to successfully catch his balance again. Unfortunately, pushing himself straight pushed Vimes over, and Vimes fell backwards. With a copper's reflexes, Vimes reached out and grabbed whatever he could—in this case, an arm. This stopped his fall for almost an entire second before Vetinari was pulled down as well. Fortunately, the cart that Vetinari was still holding onto stopped both of them and jerked them backwards. The final backwards jerk had, unfortunately, been more than the cart could handle, and it pitched forward to meet them. There was a loud crash, and then there was a pile of Vimes, Vetinari, and… fish. The cart had thankfully missed both of them, and was lying about a foot off, on its side, one wheel spinning madly.

Vetinari took a delicate sniff and immediately regretted it. "Ah," he said. "Ankhian Trout."

He was definitely back, although a less definite affirmation would've done just as nicely, thank you.

Few things can survive the waters of the Ankh River, but the Ankhian Trout is one of them. Not only is the Ankhian Trout the only fish to live in the Ankh, it is also the only fish that smells marginally better when it's dead. The first was, in fact, a live trout that had escaped from a nearby seafood restaurant and flopped its way down the muddy banks of the Ankh into its even muddier waters. It was a terrible thing, after so much trouble, to be met with something like the Ankh, but after a few adaptations, the Ankhian Trout now enjoys a new home, no predators, and all the old boots it can eat. Why there was a cartload of Ankhian Trout anywhere is still a mystery—you can't eat them; it's no fun fishing for them because when caught, they bite off your hands and scuttle back into the river; they look something like a clump of dead seaweed and thus aren't quite picturesque enough for aquariums; and you can't even use them as fertilizer because they turn the soil black and any plant that grows out of it invariably commits suicide.

"Ugh," said Vimes, pulling a fish off his head and looking at the black stain it'd left on his hand.

Though being in a pile of fish is a common and quite humorous situation, this is only true in books, usually written by someone who has never wondered what that slimy thing trying to wriggle into his ear was, and definitely not by someone who has found out.

Vetinari sat up and tried to brush the worst of the scales out of his hair. Vimes followed suit for a few minutes before he stopped, seemed to realize exactly who he was sitting next to, and threw a trout at him.

"Vetinari, you b—" He stopped, soberly checked himself, then continued on in absolute fury. "Where have you been! Ankh-Morpork's gone all to pieces without you!"

"Has it really?" asked Vetinari, standing and regarding the silvery flash of scales on his black jeans. It looked like the foreign article of clothing that shouldn't have existed in this Dimension was completely ruined. What a shame. He made a mental note to have it burned.

"Stop looking at your clothes! Where were you? We all thought you were dead!"

"So sorry to stop the celebrations short," said Vetinari, "but I don't believe I am. What's been happening?"

"Rust's been happening," muttered Vimes angrily. "Somehow people actually wanted him as Patrician and now's he's broken apart the Thieves' Guild. And the Beggars! And the Seamstresses! He's tried to take down the Assassins' Guild but of course he couldn't. And now he's after the Alchemists! There's a mob down at the Palace!"

"My word," said Vetinari mildly. "You'd think he would just wait until they blew themselves up again."

"What have you been doing for the past three weeks that was more important than running the city?"

"Three weeks? My, how the time flies. I suppose I'd better be getting back then." Vetinari pursed his lips thoughtfully. "A mob, you say?"

"Yeah," said Vimes. "Mostly Beggars. And you know how they are when they get mad."

Vetinari nodded. "Very well. I'll need your men to help me through the mob and into the Palace. I want them assembled behind the mob in half an hour."

Vimes gaped. Away for three weeks and the instant he was back, he was bossing Vimes around? "And what are you going to do?" he asked.

"I need a change of clothes," said Vetinari. "I doubt they've cleared out my room yet."

"Your room in the Palace?" asked Vimes slowly.

"Of course," said Vetinari, already picking his way out of the pile.

"You're going into the Palace?" Vimes persisted.

"Yes," said Vetinari, finally reaching the cobbles.

"But why do you need my men to get you in if you can do it perfectly well by yourself?"

Vetinari shot him a pained look. "Please, Vimes," he said. "Of course I don't need them to get me in. I just need them to make my presence known. The bigger the fuss, the better. I was thinking we should give the de Worde man a tip, but I think he's probably already down there. Half an hour, remember."

Vimes stared after Vetinari as he walked away.

8.8.8.8

Half an hour and a good scrubbing later, Vimes waited with two dozen Watchmen. The crowd of people in front of them had mostly ignored their presence, instead bent on showing Rust just how wonderful some of his new ordinances really were.

"What are we waiting for?" asked Vetinari's voice softly.

Vimes was determined not to let his surprise show. "Er, you, sir," he said, having regained a reign on his temper and a general regard for his own health that he hadn't held while half-buried under a pile of fish.

Tacitly, Vetinari watched the people with an almost predatory stare. It took Vimes a while to realize that although it was hunger he saw in Vetinari's gaze, it wasn't the kind you saw in a tiger's eyes, unless it happened to be female and a mother.

To stop this disconcerting thought, Vimes licked his drying lips and spoke. "Look at them," he said, quietly. "They're on edge. You could just walk up to them and say 'boo' and they'd probably run away."

"Because I said boo?" inquired Vetinari.

"Because it was you saying boo," said Vimes. "I mean, we had a funeral service for you and everything. Nothing got buried, but they think you're dead and now they've got to deal with Rust as best they can."

"Really." Vetinari shot Vimes an odd look. Slowly, he made his way through the crowd; those whom he tapped on the shoulder turned around, took one good look at him, and moved aside with astonishing alacrity. By the time Vetinari had got to the Palace Gates, everyone had fallen silent and, indeed, taken a step backwards.

Vetinari grinned over their heads at Vimes, but to the crowd he was grinning at them, and showing teeth, too.

"Boo," Vetinari said softly.

8.8.8.8

Meanwhile, in an Alternate Dimension, a Vetinari who had jumped out of the way of the oncoming truck settled back into his seat with a sigh. He swiveled it around to look out the window. America wasn't really that bad, once he got used to it. Maybe in time he'd even grow as fond of it as he was of Ankh-Morpork.

In any case, he'd known it wouldn't be hard to get elected.

The view from the Oval Office left something to be desired, however. He would have that fixed immediately.

End.