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Lord Vetinari’s government supported the arts and he had considerable understanding of what it took to produce art, but he also felt vaguely that a distinction ought to be drawn between boxes of oil paint and bottles of champagne.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr Sparacello, I do not understand why—“

“I think I preferred when you called me Charles,” the actor interjected.

The Patrician stared at him for a moment—he had thought ‘Charlie Sparacello’ looked quite nice on the posters, regardless of whether it had ever been the Pseudopolis shopkeeper’s legal name—and then continued, “Why presisely so much the endowment for The Dysk is being spent on having people over. I understand the expenses of opening and closing nights, but these numbers are not adding up.”

It took Charlie a few seconds to realize what had happened. “Having People Over is Vitoller’s operetta.” 

“I see. Ah. If I recall correctly, Having People Over is what they refer to as a ‘Broadway Appartment Play With A Sofa In The Centre of The Stage’.”

Charlie seemed visibly upset with description. “Your Lordship, it is a large scale operetta with an ensemble cast and expansive scenic design for locations including… a fence outside a private park and… part of a bar in an expensive restaurant.”

“I see.” Vetinari wondered if he was actually meant to have opinions on what theatres spent their budgets on. What was the purpose of expensive sets that would never be seen again? “I did see a production of this piece as a student. Thirty years ago.”

“We recast.”

“Obviously.”

“Most of the company is men, so we’ve made the romantic lead a woman.”

“How progressive.”

Charlie wondered if it was the familiarity of the face that was staring at him cynically from the other side of the desk that emboldened him or if Vetinari had simply touched a nerve. “I don’t appreciate how you’re approaching this, Lordship. Vitoller is dead. Many of us have known him for years.  He’s mentored generations. Arguably he’s done as much for theatre as Hwel. Just because you misunderstood an operetta when you were in school—“

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Need I remind you of the potential consequences of making too many assumptions of this city’s tyrant?”

“No, your honour.”

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on doing so.”

Charlie sighed. “Lines move. We make art on shifting sands. I may have been somewhat unfair to you as well. It’s a revival. We just get defensive over the budget.”

“That’s what I do not understand. It’s being spent on… materials… no one is getting paid any more.” This was not a conversation he would have with anyone even slightly less familiar than Charlie, Lord Vetinari’s public image must remain that of the defender of property or he would have no hope of effectively eroding elements of the concept itself. 

“We’re competing with Lord Wynkin and the opera house. We don’t have aristocratic backers. Not everything is written for straw-strewn floors and moth-eaten cloaks.”

The Patrician glanced, without embarrassment, at the small holes in the sleeves of his own robes.

“It’s not like we’ve got a chandelier,” Charlie continued. This was a very good point. “People like having something to look at.” Charlie knew twenty people could live quite comfortably for a year (or one person could live for twenty years) on what they were spending on the scenic elements of Having People Over and there wasn’t really too much he could say to justify that except that the money was going back into the economy. 

“The misunderstanding was a simple one.” Vetinari reminded him.

“And another hundred people were thrown out of the Drum, and fell onto the Ankh

While another hundred people took the Pseudopolis coach 

And are looking at us

Who got off of the coach or the train or the bus

And fell onto the Ankh

Maybe yesterday—“

Vetinari took in this fragment of lyric. “We didn’t have trains and buses.”

“There’s a seat reserved, if you’re interested.” Charlie was waving a ticket.

“I’ll consider it. Now please don’t allow me to detain you further.”