Drumknott entered the Oblong Office hesitantly, half-hiding a newspaper the way a small child might attempt to cover up the remains of a broken window. "My Lord? You asked for the..." Drumknott shut his eyes, "the headlines?"
"Ah, yes," said Vetinari. "I'm given to understand that the Times does not like to let a good news story slide."
Drumknott chanced opening his eyes briefly. Vetinari did not appear to be kidding. Drumknott swallowed, and held the newspaper up in front of his face. His feet automatically took the recitation stance he remembered from grade school. He straightened his shoulders and fought the urge to clasp his hands behind his back.
"Let us start with the front page, Drumknott," Vetinari suggested, after a few moments. "Does it happen to mention me at all?"
"'Patrician Stabs and Smashes,'" Drumknott read dutifully. He was certain he could see the eyebrows go up, even through the newspaper.
"My word," said Vetinari. "What a violent headline— Am I to assume that it's a headline?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Above the fold or below it?"
"Above, my Lord."
"The headline, then?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Approximately how big would you say—"
"My Lord!" Drumknott wailed, then stopped himself.
"My apologies," said Vetinari, sitting back in his chair. "I sometimes let my curiosity carry me away." The tips of his fingers found each other as if pulled by little magnets. "Is there any explanation for such a dramatic statement?"
"It says that you were found... stabbing little holes into several sheets of paper last night. And that you... smashed an unknown phial, scattering shards of glass that a poor maid was forced to clean up."
"How bizarre. I must not have been feeling myself at the time. Did you know about this, Drumknott?"
"No, my Lord."
"No. Yet it is in the paper."
"Yes, my Lord," said Drumknott. It seemed the safest answer.
"Fabricating filler stories, perhaps? Is there anything else?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"A lot?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"A slow news day, perhaps. Very well, Drumknott. Please read me the newspaper."
"What, the whole thing?"
"Unless you can recommend a better way to educate the ruler of the city on the happenings within his city. If you'd please."
Drumknott cleared his throat and searched for reserves of energy somewhere deep within him. He felt that he might need them. Really, he had no idea.
Samuel Vimes did not know where he was. He had been forced into a carriage and carried far, far away from his home. Now he was surrounded on all sides by vicious monsters, and to top it all off, he was wearing tights.
"Relax, Sam," said his wife, giving his hand a brief squeeze under the table. "I'm sure it's not nearly as bad as you're making it out to be. Some polite conversation won't kill you."
"Kidnapped," Vimes muttered, though he kept his voice low. Wouldn't want to embarrass Sybil, after all. "Brought to a foreign place. Held hostage."
"Look, there's Lord Rust. He looks like he's dying to talk to you."
Vimes gave this some thought. "Does the dying come before or after the talking?"
"Sam, please." Another squeeze.
"Can't I check in with Colon and Nobby?" Vimes asked. There was an alarming degree of whine to his voice. "The Commander of the Watch can't neglect his duty for a dinner ceremony."
"They just sent a message, they're doing fine. No one's going to invade Ankh-Morpork."
"The gate might have been stolen. They might get more freak gales."
"I'm sure that even you can't control the weather, dear."
"I could at least help tie things down. What if a flock of vampires descends from Überwald and steals all our cabbage?"
"Vampires don't come in flocks, dear. They come in… oh, what was it. Broods, I think. Like ravens. They do that a lot, you know."
"What, raven?"
"Well, yes, I suppose… But I was thinking brood."
Vimes was in the mood for a little brooding himself. He had read the Times as well, and aside from a discreet article on a series of mysterious deaths in Ankh, pretty much everything else had been about the Patrician's recently erratic behavior. It was inconceivable that Vetinari's dementia (and what else could it be, but some form of madness?) took precedence over deaths in the minds of the public, especially when the causes of the deaths were far from mysterious, unless the reporters at the paper had forgotten what a vampire attack looked like. Vimes had taken to patrolling the posher districts, keeping an ear out for word of black ribboners throwing down the ribbon, but these days Vetinari was the only topic of conversation on the streets, in the Watch house (before Vimes had informally banished it, namely by throwing a teapot into the wall), and even among the nobby portions of society. Vimes had already heard the words, "stabbing and smashing," murmured several times that night, with varying levels of glee, yet not once had anyone bothered to comment on the murders, the vampires, or the possibility that they were next.
"Sam," came Sybil's urgent voice from his side, "there's a pigeon…"
Vimes looked just in time to see the pigeon demonstrate its disdain for polite society. Perhaps the whole night was worth it for the alarmed cries going up around the table at the sight of a mere bird. He could only imagine what the response would have been if it had been an actual vampire. No wonder predators went for the rich people: they were so much easier to pick off.
As Vimes scanned the message, the smile dropped off his face; he could practically hear it clanging to the floor by his feet. The pigeon cooed in the sudden silence as those present at the table took in the expression on Vimes's face, before said face was off running, Vimes dashing out along with it, dropping only a hasty, "I have to go, Sybil," on his way out.
There were a few miffed remarks about rude departures. Then: "Do you really think the Patrician had a run-in with witches?"
Sybil read the pigeon's message quietly, and then frowned. She made a slightly more polite departure than her husband, and hurried after him to the Palace.
"What a fine city," Vetinari sighed, raising his face to the breeze, lips slightly parted as though to drink in the delicate cocktail of nighttime smog. "Do you know, Drumknott? I've often thought Ankh-Morpork was a little like a clock."
"So you've said, my Lord." A pause. "Perhaps this particular clock would be better observed close up?"
"I've had nothing but close-up views lately. What a ruler needs is to step back on occasion and take in the whole panorama. It is a fine sight."
Vetinari leaned forward, and Drumknott instantly leapt up. His hands hovered uselessly, trying to think which part of Vetinari to grab should he careen over the edge. The man did look rather thin, under the moonlight—or perhaps that was just the wind snatching mercilessly at their clothing and hair, pressing them in and tearing them apart all at once. The Patrician hardly seemed to notice it at all.
The people of Ankh-Morpork were spread out below them. Far below them, in fact. From the distance they formed an indistinguishable blob: curious, awed, and uncharacteristically silent. Normally, they should have been shouting out encouragements (though some of these would have been encouragements to jump, granted), but when it was the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork who was teetering all the way up there, they weren't quite sure what to do.
"You think he's really going to do it, Sarge?" Nobby asked. He and Colon had a way of moving fast when there was a spectacle to be seen, even on the other side of the city.
"I don't know why he would." Colon couldn't seem to take his eyes away. "I mean, it's not like he gets depressed, right?"
"Right. Plus even if he did, he'd probably just make other poor sods jump off the roof. Don't see why he'd have to do it himself."
"Maybe not his roof, though," Colon suggested. "Seems a shame for people to commit suicide using the Palace roof."
"Then again, isn't the Palace a public building? Think of it like that, and it's kind of a surprise that more people don't use it."
Vimes appeared. He was not normally discreet, but this time the crowd was strangely pliant as he elbowed his way through. The silence was eerie. Not even Dibbler seemed to know what to do with himself; the street vendor was just standing there, holding a white t-shirt in one hand and a felt marker uncertainly in the other.
"It's actually true?" Vimes demanded of the sky. His voice rang in the silence. "What is he doing up there?"
"He is contemplating the city," Vetinari called down calmly. "Is that you, Sir Samuel? Drumknott was just reading me an article about how I pursued you with a certain garden implement. What was it, Drumknott?"
"A pair of shears, my Lord."
"Ah yes. I do apologize for that. I hope you are uninjured?"
"There were no shears," Vimes shouted up. "Now get down from that roof, because if I have to come up there and get you down myself, I can promise you won't be uninjured."
"Hmm?" Vetinari asked, moving forward, apparently unconcerned with the tile that crumbled under his step.
"Not that way!" Vimes called, and then dashed forward taking the Palace stairs at a run.
"No? Ah well." Vetinari turned the white lamps of his eyes on Drumknott. "It's rather windy today, isn't it?"
The gates of Ankh-Morpork were never well secured; there was no need. Why invade, after all, when you would be welcomed in with open arms (or at least palms) if you brought with you the slightest shred of culture, innovation, or wealth?
An army of black-cloaked figures filed into the city under cover of night. The orderly rows moved swiftly beyond the lighting afforded by the gate lanterns and melded smoothly into the shadows beyond. A solitary cloak detached itself from the rear. It produced an extremely nervous pigeon, which took off for the Palace as soon as it was released. It was hard to imagine that all this activity could go on unobserved, but the streets were oddly quiet, as the shadows grew slightly larger with new occupants, and the moon drifted on overhead.