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Chapter Text

Absorbed in the meticulous organization of city affairs, Lord Vetinari worked quietly at his desk as Drumknott discreetly entered the oblong office.

The secretary adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat softly to announce his presence. "Lady Sybil is here to see you, my lord." Drumknott murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "She does not have an appointment."

Vetinari looked up from his paperwork; his expression was unreadable and yet he had an immediate change in priority. "Please, show her in." He responded smoothly, his tone lacking the irritation he might show others for such an interruption. For Sybil, Vetinari always made time.

Unlike others who used (or attempted to use) their connection to the Patrician to climb the social ladder, Sybil was a genuine friend. She did not wield their relationship as a tool for personal gain or any other self-serving ambition. (Teaming up in a combined effort to look after Sam Vimes didn't count; that was to everyone's benefit anyway.)

As Sybil entered, Vetinari politely rose from behind his desk. "Sybil, what a surprise." He began, then faltered.

She was flanked by her butler Willikins to one side and Igor to the other. The escort was unusual for Sybil and hinted at something ominous. He quickly took in her appearance: dragon gear still on, leather apron dusted with soot, hair unadorned by her usual wig. This was not the Sybil who went out in public or attended social galas; this was Sybil as herself, honest and unfiltered.

The smile he had prepared dissolved into a line of concern. "What brings you here in such haste?"

Sybil looked around the room, noticing the empty places where she expected (and hoped) to find someone else. But failed to find the person she was searching for.

Posture rigid and her tone grim, Sybil handed him a crumpled piece of paper. "Did you know about this, Havelock?"

Vetinari unfolded the letter with care, his gaze scanning the contents quickly. It was an elegantly scripted message, extending condolences for the loss of her husband, Samuel Vimes. The seal of the Assassins’ Guild was affixed neatly at the bottom, yet everything about this message was irregular. The Guild did not send condolences, they sent receipts.

As Vetinari read, his sharp mind began to tick through the implications. If Vimes had died, word would have reached him through the whispers of his dark clerks long before an official report ever arrived. Yet here it was, a crisp, authentic looking note delivered via the post, claiming that the unassailable Sam Vimes had been bested.

Vetinari met Sybil's gaze, seeing the blend of sorrow and fury that only a Ramkin could muster in such circumstances.

"Sybil, I assure you, this is the first I have heard of it." He said calmly, his mind already turning over the possibilities. "And I find it as disturbing and questionable as you do. Let us assume for a moment that this is not what it seems."

He gestured to a chair, inviting her to sit, his demeanor indicating that this was not a matter to be taken lightly, nor one that would go uninvestigated.

Ignoring the offered chair, Sybil stood rooted to the spot. There was a steely glint in her eyes, reminiscent of the formidable and unyielding shieldmaidens of myth.

"I must know the truth." Sybil remained focused on the only thing that mattered right now. "I know it breaches the Assassin's code to take such a contract, but I must insist. I am prepared to offer you 10 million Ankh Morpork dollars to recover Sam's body and uncover who is responsible for this."

The offer of such a vast sum would turn the heads of most men, but Vetinari was not most men. He was the Patrician, a master of the hidden currents of power that flowed through the city. More importantly, he was a former assassin, one whose skills lay dormant but never forgotten. The mere suggestion that someone had succeeded in assassinating Sam Vimes, a man as cunning and resilient as himself, stirred a rare unease within him.

"Sybil, you know I cannot be swayed by money." Vetinari replied, his voice steady. "However, I will handle this. Not for the money, but because it's necessary."

This was a transformative moment for Havelock Vetinari; internally, he felt a seismic shift. 

For Sam Vimes, the carefully constructed facade, the cool detachment that marked his reign as Patrician would be discarded. 

For Sam Vimes, he would tread paths he had avoided for decades, and accept the parts of himself he long suppressed (the deadly assassin, an integral part of who he was).

For Sam Vimes, he would break his own rules. Not because he had miscalculated, not because he had lost control, but because one man, one impossible, infuriating, indispensable man, mattered.

"I suggest you visit the Watch House. See what you can learn about Sam's last known movements. But do so discreetly. Do not reveal this letter or your fears." 

Sybil recognized how serious Vetinari was being. There was an unwavering, piercing glint in his eyes that made it clear how important this was to him, too. His promise and assurance, his word, was not given lightly. When Vetinari said he would handle something, it meant the full might of his intellect and capabilities would be applied to the problem.

Though the situation remained dire, Sybil felt fortified by Vetinari's commitment. Instead of sitting behind closed doors and weeping, she could take action and unravel some of this mystery. While trusting that her friend, Havelock Vetinari would handle things in his own mysterious, efficient manner.

Once Sybil withdrew, Vetinari called Drumknott back into the room.

"You heard everything?" Vetinari asked as soon as he entered.

"Yes, my lord. As is sometimes required of me." Drumknott replied, understanding the gravity of what had just transpired. 

"Clear my schedule for today and tomorrow." Vetinari instructed, his demeanor reflecting a rare urgency.

"Immediately, sir."

"And Drumknott-" Vetinari continued. "Summon Captain Carrot and bring 'The Books' to the Rats Chamber. In ten minutes."

Drumknott hesitated, his expression revealing his unease. "The books, sir?"

"The books, Drumknott. And Captain Carrot." Vetinari reiterated firmly.

Accepting the command, Drumknott's voice softened, a rare emotional note entering his usually composed demeanor. "Sir, it has been an honor to serve you."

Vetinari gave him a solemn nod, acknowledging the depth of their time together. As Drumknott turned to carry out the instructions, Vetinari returned his focus to the task at hand, contemplating the implications of his next move in solitude.

Chapter Text

Amid the hustle and bustle of the Watch House, Willikins was quietly restringing a crossbow near the weapons storage. While beside him, Detritus was methodically sharpening the assortment of blades Willikins had brought along. The array of weaponry revealed just how well armed the butler had been during their visit to the Patrician, and hinted at a dire contingency plan.

Meanwhile in the break room, Cheery and Igor were indulging in a conversation that would have made most of their colleagues uneasy. But for the two forensic enthusiasts, it was a chance to delve into their unusual interests without judgement or misunderstanding.

"Have you ever thought about how much fungi can tell us about a crime scene?" Cheery prompted as she took a sip from her cup of coffee.

"Oh, absolutely! They reveal so much about the environment where they grow." Igor replied.

"I’ve noticed that different types of fungi thrive on different hosts. For example, because of their unique silicon based physiology, trolls can support a completely different range of fungal species, some glowing with internal light, others releasing spores with a pungent, earthy odor."

"Yeth!" Igor agreed. "And those fungi are remarkably resilient. Trolls have their own little ecosystems. It's fascinating to observe."

"And on human bodies-" Cheery continued. "The fungi are often more aggressive, flourishing in the nutrient-rich environment provided by decomposition."

"It's incredible how each body, each crime scene, tells its own story through the spores and mycelium."

Cheery rarely had the opportunity to talk about such things with someone who shared her curiosity and enthusiasm. Trusting that Igor would be discreet, Cheery felt confident in sharing the details of a previous case. Even so, she lowered her voice. "I once had a case where the spores found in a dwarf’s beard helped link him to an outbreak in a mine."

"Really? That’s amazing! Dwarf beards must be a treasure trove for forensic ecologists. The moisture, the bits of leftover food; perfect breeding grounds for all sorts of fungi."

Cheery unconsciously stroked the tip of her beard as she added. "Although for dwarves, it’s a bit of a taboo topic-" Not that it was going to stop her from discussing it.

Sybil sat at Sam's cluttered desk. Papers, reports, and various remnants (the nub of a cigar, an empty matchbox, a dulled pencil) were scattered and piled in utter chaos; yet she suspected each item was exactly where Sam intended it to be. Tempted as she was to give it some sense of order, she resisted; the desk was a map of Sam's mind, and it was not something she felt right altering.

Sybil had requested information on the Commander's activities that day, and the Watch was more than willing to oblige. There was an unspoken rule within the Watch: in the peculiar hierarchy of their world, Lady Sybil outranked the Commander. This wasn't formalized, of course, but it was understood; in the same way a spring storm outranked umbrellas.

Angua climbed the stairs balancing a tray with coffee and an assortment of biscuits (among them, a lone dog biscuit she'd snuck in for herself). Domestic chores wasn’t something Angua did (the very idea of it made her fur bristle), but this was Lady Sybil. Not a guest (exactly), not a superior (exactly), but someone who deserved kindness (absolutely). 

Trailing behind Angua, Nobby clutched a crumpled logbook like it might escape if given the chance.

As soon as they entered, Sybil looked up hopefully, but whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this particular parade.

Nobby held out the logbook. “So what’s all this then? A surprise party? Need us to keep the Commander distracted for a few hours? Is it your anniversary? Oh! Are you renewing your vows? I know a fella who does garden weddings on the cheap, a bit heavy on the doves, but a nice atmosphere. Or- don’t tell me! You're finally getting him to retire? Wait, hang on, are you pregnant?”

Sybil blinked. The relentless volume of questions allowed no space for reply.

“Or is this about that thing he said at last year's Hogswatch? ‘Cause I’ve got a mate who does apology hampers. Mostly beef jerky, but—”

“Nobby.” Angua said, not even looking at him. “Piss off.”

Nobby snagged a biscuit off the tray with the speed of a professional opportunist. “Right, right. Just trying to help. But just say the word if you need balloons.” He shuffled off, pleased with himself.

Sybil let out the faintest breath of relief.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Sybil said appreciatively, accepting the logbook.

"Actually, it's Captain now." Angua corrected gently, with an apologetic smile.

“Oh! I apologize, Captain.” Sybil said, a flush of embarrassment tinting her cheeks. “I wasn't aware of your promotion.”

“I sometimes forget too.” Angua said, shrugging. “Especially around Carrot. It’s the pack instinct, I think. He gives orders, and my legs just move.”

Sybil gave a soft laugh, and started flipping through the pages of the logbook. “Whoever wrote this has an interesting relationship with penmanship.”

“Here, let me help you with that.” Angua pulled up a chair, and started by guiding Sybil to the right date. “These are the times Commander Vimes checked in and out this morning. Last entry is just before noon.”

Sybil frowned slightly. “He didn’t come home for lunch.”

Angua didn’t say anything to that. She didn’t have to. She reached for her biscuit, and it was halfway to her mouth when she noticed Sybil watching her.

“Actually-” Sybil began, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “Do you mind if I try that one?”

Angua paused, the biscuit nearly to her lips. "Um, it is a dog biscuit." She clarified, unsure.

“I know.” Sybil replied, her tone lighter than it had been all day. “I’ve always been curious. But I’ve never had quite the right company for that sort of experimentation.” She admitted with a small chuckle.

With a shrug, Angua passed the biscuit over.

Sybil took a careful bite into it with her front teeth before realizing the need to use her molars instead. She chewed thoughtfully.

"Actually, I quite like the texture." Sybil commented after a moment, looking genuinely surprised. "Dense but also a little airy, if that makes sense."

Angua nodded, amused by her adventurous spirit. "I get it." She agreed with a grin.

Sybil smiled, her earlier tension momentarily forgotten. "I don’t know that I’ll replace the shortbread at my next tea social, but I certainly understand the occasional craving. Thank you for sharing your biscuit with me."

And then the moment settled, fading into something quieter, heavier.

Sybil stared down at the logbook. It might have meant something, something vital, but what? 

And the desk still looked like it might reveal something useful, if prodded in the right way. But Sybil had no idea where to prod. Everything here had meaning, she was certain of that. Sam’s mind worked in its own kind of logic, driven by instincts and connections she could only begin to guess at.

She could name every species of swamp dragon in the known world. She could recite the lineage of every noble family in Ankh-Morpork. But she wasn’t a Watchman. She didn’t solve mysteries. That was Sam’s calling. And now that he was missing, there was a space where his certainty should have been. She didn’t like the size of it. She didn’t like how cold it felt.

Her hand drifted to the edge of the desk. She let her fingers rest there a moment, as if touch alone could summon something; his presence, his voice, anything.

But he wasn’t here.

The logbook hadn’t given her answers. The desk hadn’t whispered any secrets. But she had already taken the first step, and she would keep walking forward, because Sam would do no less for her.

She glanced at the biscuit crumbs still on the tray and gave a small, wry smile. It was a silly thing. A dog biscuit. But for a moment, it had made her feel something other than fear.

Chapter Text

Vetinari entered the Assassins' Guild with the precision and subtlety that was his trademark.

Forgoing the expected attire of the Patrician or even the traditional clothing of an assassin, he selected practical over fashionable. His clothing was chosen for function alone: matte fabrics in dark greys and the deepest blues. Not a single button gleamed. Not a thread moved out of place.

Every detail was considered, yet forgettable.

He walked openly through the corridors of the Guild. 

He did not sneak. Sneaking created sound, suspicion, tension. Sneaking suggested something to hide, and Vetinari knew that hiding often drew more attention. Instead, he walked at a measured pace, eyes forward, posture neutral. 

One could say Vetinari moved like a shadow, but even shadows betray their origin. And Vetinari left no such trace, not even a silhouette. Just the clean, clinical void where a man should be.

He occupied no more space than necessary. He was not hidden, but he was unnoticeable. The distinction mattered. This was no small feat in a building filled with trained observers.

It was discipline. Conditioning. He had spent a lifetime mastering the art, until his presence could be reduced to zero. (Among witches, this is called fading, an ability for vanishing without going anywhere. But for Vetinari, it was a skill that had become second nature long ago.)

And so he passed through the halls like a controlled breath; present, then gone.

Arriving at the records and registration office, Vetinari went directly to the most recent ledger of active contracts. He flipped through the pages until he located the entry for Sam Vimes. In meticulous handwriting, were the details of the terms. The exorbitant bounty placed on Vimes’s life, and the encrypted code meant to shield the identity of the one who paid. In the margins, a list of crossed out names kept the record of potential assassins (who either had vanished or otherwise failed in their attempts).

But these were old contracts; documenting the dangerous game between Vimes and those foolish enough to think they could best him. More recent entries showed escalating sums, representing the increasing desperation or determination of those who sought the Commander's downfall. But the last recorded attempt was from the previous year; since then, no one dared take up the contract.

Vetinari allowed himself a thin smile. Someone would stand a better chance of inhuming me, which is merely impossible, than laying a finger on Vimes.

But the records confirmed one critical piece of information: this recent claim of Vimes’s death was not sanctioned by the Guild. No recent attempts, no payouts. This was something else, something outside the usual channels of hired blades and cloaked figures.

With this knowledge, Vetinari’s mind turned to another possibility. If Vimes was not dead, where was he? And under what circumstances could his supposed death have been so convincingly faked that it warranted a letter with the Guild’s seal?

There was only one way to truly confirm whether Vimes was alive or dead. But to pursue this line of inquiry further, required consulting those with arcane and obscure knowledge. He would need the assistance of the wizards. 

The reaction was instinctual. A spike of primal, ancestral fear ran through the wizards like a jolt of magic gone wrong. The wizards saw the dark silhouette, and in their panic, their minds leapt to the only explanation that made sense: an assassin.

Angry voices and bewildered shouts filled the dining hall of Unseen University. The wizards stood around the long tables, pointing and waving their hands wildly at one another. Accusations flew, with cries of "Dead man's pointy shoes!" and "You promised!" echoing off the stone walls.

Though if the wizards were (ever) capable of logical thinking, they would remember that Dead Man’s Pointy Shoes (the ruthless tradition of career advancement through assassination) was an internal game, and not one hired out through the Assassins Guild.

Archchancellor Ridcully bellowed over the din, attempting to restore order. "Gentlemen! GENTLEMEN! Erasmus, if you—! Godfrey, put that—! Professor Stodeley! Just put on your glasses!"

The peace under Archchancellor Ridcully’s cheerful, common sense rule had been a kind of spell in itself. It made the University comfortable. Predictable. A place where squabbles were still loud, but rarely came by way of funeral. It had lulled the wizards into thinking the age of violence was behind them. That status was granted through persistence, not peril; that faculty meetings could end in minutes, not duels.

So the idea of returning to the old, brutal ways, was unthinkable.

And yet, here it was standing in the room.

But something wasn’t right.

The figure at the far end of the hall wasn’t wearing the tight black uniform of the Assassins Guild. He wasn't lurking, waiting for a clean strike. He wasn’t hiding at all. He was standing there, deliberate and unhurried. He wasn’t observing the chaos, he was calculating it.

And that is when they recognized him.

Not an assassin.

Worse.

Lord Vetinari.

But he was not wearing the formal robes of office. He was no longer bothering with the diplomatic mask of the Patrician. He wore something worse: intent. The kind that suggested he had stopped asking polite questions, and had started counting bodies.

A man like Vetinari didn’t just enter a room. He controlled it. He claimed its angles, its exits, and its silences. And right now, having Lord Vetinari here felt more dangerous than the return of Dead Man’s Pointy Shoes.

With a resonant bang that might have been magical in origin, Ridcully regained control. "If you would use your eyes ... and in some cases, your glasses, you would see this is no assassin, but the Patrician himself!"

The yelling died off. But then the confusion shifted into a new kind of outrage.

Why was Vetinari here, uninvited? Why had he walked into their hall like he already owned it, and possibly intended to dismantle it on his way out? And why was he looking like he was about to execute someone?

Another wave of shouting threatened to erupt, but it never got the chance.

"Enough." Vetinari said, without raising his voice. He was calm, but there was a weight behind his tone that made every wizard feel suddenly, acutely, uncomfortably, mortal.

They had grown used to Vetinari the tactician, the strategist who shaped the city through quiet pressure and impeccable timing. 

A man who sliced through policy with politeness, who turned political cruelty into an art form so elegant it hardly bled.

That man played the long game.

But that man had stayed in the Oblong Office.

The version of Vetinari standing before them now, didn’t care about decorum. He was not here to negotiate. And he hadn’t come to threaten, or imply, or smile faintly over a teacup.

This was not a version of Vetinari they knew.

This version of Vetinari wasn’t practicing restraint. He was done with it.

And that was terrifying.

Because that control, that restraint, was what made the Patrician predictable. Restraint was what made the Patrician civilized. Restraint kept the city safe.

And right now, Vetinari didn’t look safe.

"Stop acting like spoiled toddlers." He scolded, his disdain clear. "You squander knowledge, magic, resources; all the gifts at your disposal, wasted on petty squabbles and fear of shadows."

The wizards were stunned into silence. They were unaccustomed to such blunt criticism.

Although ready to defend his faculty, Ridcully paused as he caught the full measure of Vetinari’s grim resolve, and so he shifted tact. "How can we help you, Lord Vetinari?" He prompted.

"I require your assistance with the Rite of AshkEnte." He stated. "Immediately."

The request (which wasn't a request), made it clear that whatever the motivations behind Vetinari's actions, was a matter of life or death. 

Especially Death.

The chamber for the Rite of AshkEnte was filled with overlapping voices. Wizards clustered around the central dais, where an assortment of fruits (none of which seemed entirely appropriate) were collected.

"So do I turn to the left, or do you?" One wizard asked, peering over his spectacles at the arrangement of fruit.

"I think the orange turns to the left." Another suggested uncertainly, reaching out to spin the fruit in question.

"How does an orange turn to the left? What is left and right of an orange?" A third chimed in.

"No one turns to the left. And it's meant to be grapes-" Corrected an authoritative voice from the back.

"Just one grape? Or a bundle?" A wizard asked, fumbling with a small bunch of grapes.

"What makes a bundle of grapes?" Another pondered aloud, causing a brief pause as several wizards considered the philosophical implications.

"So not the grapefruit?" One asked, holding up a suspiciously large, round fruit.

"That’s not grapefruit, that’s an orange." Corrected another, a hint of frustration edging into his tone.

"Right, so—" One wizard began, only to be interrupted.

"Oh, is it meant to be right? Here I was thinking it was meant to be left—" Another wizard said, adding to the misunderstanding.

"No. No. No." Came the exasperated sigh from a senior wizard, who took a step forward to address the confusion. "It’s quite simple. Yes, this is an orange. It’s not meant to be- and no it’s not meant to be grapefruit either. It’s meant to be grapes. A bundle of grapes."

Meanwhile, a small group of wizards, perhaps more competent (or simply less distracted by the fruit related debacle), continued on with the incantations.

A shimmering heat haze rose from the ground, making the air seem to ripple. It was a sign that the rite was beginning to take hold. 

It meant, despite the bumbling efforts of their colleagues arguing over fruit orientations and debating the proper definitions of left and right, a few wizards were, against all odds, performing the ritual correctly.

And so, in this blend of competence and confusion, the Rite of AshkEnte slowly, begrudgingly, began to manifest its ancient power.

When Death materialized in the center of the summoning circle, there was a pause, a silence that stretched and filled the room. Although the wizards were usually quick to congratulate themselves for pulling off such a feat, today they were unusually quiet.

YES? Death prompted, his voice echoed around the room, a deep well of eternal patience awaiting its purpose.

Standing a respectful distance from the circle, Vetinari introduced himself, the epitome of politeness. "Hello, Sir. I am Lord Vetinari."

YES, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Death responded, his skull tilting slightly, as if puzzled why such formalities were necessary. In the end, he met everyone. 

"Good. Then you know who Samuel Vimes is, too." Vetinari continued, getting straight to the point.

The inquiry seemed to perplex Death even further; an odd sensation for an entity accustomed to being the final certainty, in all things. USUALLY, THAT IS A MATTER BETWEEN MYSELF AND THE SOUL IN QUESTION.

Vetinari pressed on, unflustered by the response. "Has his soul been collected by you, then?"

Death shifted, the air around him shimmering with a discomfort rarely felt by the anthropomorphic personification. IT IS ... COMPLICATED. A rare admission from an entity for whom complications were typically non-existent.

"Complicated how?" Vetinari prompted, his voice calm yet insistent.

THE QUANTUM UNCERTAINTY OF HIS EXISTENCE MAKES IT DIFFICULT. HE IS NEITHER ALIVE NOR DEAD IN ANY STABLE TIMELINE. IT IS MOST IRREGULAR.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Quantum uncertainty? So, he is lost in probabilities?"

YES, SOMETHING LIKE THAT. IMAGINE BEING EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE, ALL AT ONCE. IT IS QUITE TROUBLESOME, EVEN FOR ME. I AM NOT ACCUSTOMED TO ... CHASING.

"Indeed." Vetinari mused, the concept sparking his interest. "This irregularity, it is not common then?"

NO, IT IS EXCEPTIONALLY RARE. THE UNIVERSE DOES NOT TYPICALLY INDULGE IN SUCH AMBIGUITIES.

Vetinari nodded, absorbing the gravity of the situation. "And if one were to stabilize such an uncertainty?"

ONE MIGHT FIND HIMSELF EITHER COMPLETELY ALIVE OR ENTIRELY DEAD, DEPENDING ON THE NATURE OF THE STABILIZATION. IT IS A RISKY ENDEAVOR.

"A risk." Vetinari echoed, his gaze drifting momentarily as he contemplated the options. "Thank you, Sir. Your insights have been ... enlightening."

SHOULD YOU NEED TO CLARIFY HIS STATE FURTHER, I WILL BE WATCHING. AND WAITING. With a nod that seemed almost courteous, Death faded from the circle, leaving behind a room full of wizards still processing the surreal encounter.

"Well, that was unusual, even for us." Ridcully said, breaking the silence. 

Vetinari simply nodded. 

Something fundamental had slipped its axis; and if the universe insisted on ambiguity, then he would answer with certainty. By force, if necessary.

Because ambiguity was a luxury for philosophers.

And if the universe could no longer tell the difference, he had no patience for a cosmos that misplaced a man like Samuel Vimes.