More Tales From the Guilds

Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, watched the train depart from Grand Central Station taking Lady Margolotta's private railcar back to her home in Bonk. It had been, as ever, a pleasant visit. How pleasant and what those pleasantries might have consisted of had been for years the subject of intense speculation among the skilled and prying members of Ankh-Morpork's gossiping classes. They were, these many years later, no closer to an answer that when the man had first taken up the position and enforced his highly eccentric version of democracy. One Man, One Vote had been his byword from the beginning. Vetinari was The Man and he had The Vote.

Average Morporkians

(

Gossip at the highest levels was the prerogative of the 'better sorts' living on the Ankh side of the River)

, being in the main a highly pragmatic lot, don't bother themselves about it. If, as Professor Emergent-Weatherwax put it, the man wore his heart on his sleeve, it was either the same color black as the sleeve itself or worn well up inside—possibly as far as the armpit. More cynical citizens, (His Grace, Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch being the most prominent), believe that the Patrician deliberately keeps things vague because every second spent in snooping for more gossip is a second withdrawn from plotting a coup. And since the city had already suffered through more than its fair share of those, what the Patrician did on his own time was his own business.

"I just can't help but wonder what it is that goes on between those two," the recently appointed Professor of Recondite Phenomena mused one afternoon in the Uncommon Room at Unseen University. First Lunch was done, and the faculty were happily anticipating the Interluncheon Morsels.

The Archchancellor paused before lighting his pipe and glared at the professor. "It ain't the University's business to delve inta politics, Professor. We have a long standin' agreement with th' Palace. Havelock don't do magic and we don't do politics. It's more comfort'ble that way and saves havin' t' add to that pond out back where disr'spectful civilians end up."

"I'm

not

thinking politically, Archchancellor. This is a purely academic question. After all, the Professor of Transformative Existentialism delved into the internal workings of werewolves so why should vampires be outside his purvey?"

A carefully calculated tiny fireball popped off Ridcully's index finger and dove into the tobacco firmly packed in the huge bowl of the Archchancellor's Meerschaum as he growled, "Because this vampire is, 1) the Patrician's good friend and 2) the effective ruler of all Überwald that's above ground! That's why. If she don't want t'be studied, we

ought

t'be smart enough t'leave her in peace. And whether or not you chaps are, I

am

—so we will."

The Professor of Recondite Phenomena sniffed haughtily, "Well,

I

would have thought such a scholarly pursuit was what a University's business was but if you insist . . ."

"I do. Stibbons?"

"Yes, Archchancellor?"

"If yer would be so good as to post that as a directive on that bulletin board thingy of yours, I'll sign it person'lly. No 'pp' required!"

"I'll have it up this afternoon, Archchancellor."

The Librarian nodded sagely as he peeled another banana with his feet. With both the Archchancellor and his Vice aligned in a decision it would be a seriously foolish wizard who tried to go against it. The brains locked inside those two skulls were likely more than a match for the entire rest of the Academic Council combined. Personally, he felt that transformed people who were happy in their new shape should be allowed to enjoy it in peace. Ever since an astounding thaumaturgical accident had popped him out of the species of inoffensive wizard librarian

(

Just possibly named Horace Worblehat, but no one is inclined to make sure--the Librarian

really

doesn't want to be turned back into a human)

into the species of full-grown adult orangutan, the Librarian had developed an interest in 'outsider' views—especially as he shared so many of them.

*****

The Professor of Recondite Phenomena was not to be deterred so lightly and the following morning, while walking through the cloisters after elevenses, he sought out the Professor of Transformative Existentialism.

"Ah, Capstick old fellow, I see that you, too, have taken up a morning constitutional."

Transformative Existentialism rolled his eyes. "It was either that or get hounded out of the Faculty Bar! Ridcully seems bound and determined to make athletes of all of us, even those who have no interest in foot-the-ball or rowing. I'm just trying to find a middle way, enough exercise to satisfy the Archchancellor but not so much as to make my feet hurt. Are you of a similar mind, Ringwood?"

"I am, indeed, though my emphasis is more on avoiding bunions and less on making the Archchancellor happy. You know, there are days when I think that the fine old tradition of promotion via dead men's pointy shoes should be revived but then I see the Reader in Opaque Utterances limping towards the dining hall. It clarifies why the tradition died. Ridcully is a hard man to get rid of."

"And a demanding one. I understand you were the reason behind that notice on Stibbon's bulletin board banning any investigation into His Lordship's current—uh, physical status?"

"Guilty as charged, I fear. But tell me, since you are an expert in such matters, just how would a vampire become Patrician, presuming that one has, of course."

Hallowell snorted. "What you're really asking is how a Patrician could become a vampire, aren't you? That bit of gossip pops up and then fades away every time the Lady Margolotta comes for a visit. And I'll tell you, there's no way to know for sure. Very little is known about vampires, actually. They're effectively immortal, very strong and fast, and deuced hard to kill. Rumor (and only rumor) has that one vampire can create another with the proper sort of bite. This isn't proven, nor does it seem likely that it can

be

proven. Who'd risk it? They do seem, rarely, to have families and then there are the unexplained ones. The late Dragon King of Arms was one of those."

"Is that all?"

"Ringwood, they don't

want

to be studied. And they are formidable foes when offended. And it is now official that should anyone among the faculty be foolish enough to try and get involved with vampires (and in Palace politics), they're on their own. Neither Ridcully nor Stibbons would lift a finger to get a wizard that silly out of the mire they'd get themselves into. So, being quite fond of my own skin, I have completely lost any small interest I might have ever had in vampires in general and the Lady Margolotta's personal relationships in particular, thank-you very much. Good day to you, sir."

*****

In the offices of the Ankh-Morpork

Times

, Miss Tilly was in a tizzy

(

Not an uncommon occurrence)

. As the papers Opinions Editor, it was not just her position to produce a daily column expressing Views (such as that young people should be horsewhipped for being young) but also to curate the Letters section of the paper. Today she was working her way through an uncommonly large pile.

"Mr. DeWorde, we're having another avalanche of people insisting that they have proof the Patrician is a vampire and asking what the City is going to do about it! This happens every single time that Überwald woman comes to pay a visit."

William looked wearily up from the editorial he was trying to compose. "And given that His Lordship, to a rather large degree,

is

the City, are there any suggestions as to just what the City

can

do about it? Just clarify the spelling and punctuation and publish them, Miss Tilly. People like to see their names in the paper and will happily buy it so they can."

"Mr. DeWorde, do you think there is any truth to these persistent rumors? Is it possible Lord Vetinari actually is a vampire?"

"Possible? Of course. Likely? In my opinion, not. Of course, there is also the rumor that he dyes his hair, something I am inclined to give more credence to. In neither case does it particularly matter. The City works, Miss Tilly, and it works because His Lordship demands that it does. What sort of being it is that makes that demand seems irrelevant to my way of thinking. Just pick a few of the more comprehensible ones and put them in the paper, Miss Tilly. And think of the marvelously acid column you could write about them."

Miss Tilly looked thoughtful. It was, she mused, her fate to see all the errors of other peoples' thinking and her duty to point them out. Yes, there was indeed a great deal of inspiration to be had in this pile. A grim smile spread across her seamed face. The next column of Views would be a doozy!

That evening, at the DeWorde family mansion, Sacharissa Capslock put her fashionable but totally useless hat on its rack, changed out of her day clothes and into 'something more comfortable'. Then she jiggled out of her dressing room into the drawing room where William waited with two glasses and a crystal decanter of sherry. After he poured each of them an aperitif, she kissed him softly on the cheek and settled down into a comfortable club chair in front of the fireplace that glowed with burnt down coals.

"William, what the devil is going on? Every time Lady Margolotta makes a 'state visit' to His Lordship, the entire city erupts in bizarre rumors. It's like the entire city has an obsession."

William sat on the arm of the chair and, reaching through the open front of the dressing gown, idly stroked the inside of her knee. For a few moments he contemplated the golden liquid in his glass.

"No," he mused, "not the

entire

city. The only people who really seem to care are like us, the upper crust, the ones who would, if His Lordship wasn't Patrician, be running the place—and quite poorly, I imagine. Personally, I suspect that this 'obsession' is something Vetinari deliberately cultivates because it gives potentially powerful opponents something to worry and chew on instead of opposing him. I once asked him, off the record, how much of the rumor mill around him was of his own making."

"And he answered . . .?" she asked tickling his palm.

"He smiled and wagged his finger at me. And you know how he can smile."

"In a way that makes you feel, once you're back out on the street, that you've barely escaped death!"

"Exactly. You know, I often feel that the only reason that we don't get shut down and burned out is that he finds us useful, somehow."

"What? How? You go out of your way to irritate him."

"My love, you and I

think

we're irritating him. We may just be playing the role he finds most appropriate for us. You, me, the von Lipswigs, Commander Vimes, everyone! The only thing that we know matters to him is the City and he'll do whatever he believes necessary for it. If he ever got the idea that somehow, we were harming the City, we wouldn't last the night."

Adam, the butler, appeared at the door. "Mr. DeWorde? My lady? Cook advises me that dinner is at least a half hour away so if you'd like me to lock the door . . .?"

Sacharissa smirked and reached up for William's cravat. Pulling down she said, "Thank-you, Adam, we would. Tell cook not to hurry."

*****

Archchancellor Ridcully stood on the bank of the pond behind Unseen University's Commons perfecting his double haul. That there wasn't a fish within a hundred fifty miles that might take a fly bothered him not one whit. A country gentleman should be a master of the bamboo and whatever else the Archchancellor might be, he was a countryman to the core. Things were going especially well this day, the line making a perfect arc behind his head on the back cast and laying out straight and true in front.

He looked at the collected group of frogs huddled in one corner next to the lily pads and casually thought to tie a piece of red flannel on the tippet and see which of them might try and take it. Not with a hook, of course. The frogs in this pond had once been Ankh-Morpork citizens who had badly misjudged just how hazardous running afoul of wizards could be. He wondered if any of them retained human awareness. He knew that many fools who had been transformed and then turned back did remember their time as, for example, pumpkins or stone statues but those who really annoyed one of the faculty enough to get 'condemned to the pond' were there for keeps. Still, sinking a fishhook into the jaws of something previously human was pushing the boundaries of decency. However, a bit of teasing to reinforce their froggy-ness had some appeal. Cheeky buggers! They certainly had had it coming

(

"I'll sue the University," were famous last words!).

"Beggin' your Worship's pardon?"

Ridcully turned to see Modo, the University gardener politely tugging his forelock. Modo was 1) a dwarf and 2) an expert gardener who kept the grounds verdant and immaculate. He was also a genius with the compost heap and was ever eager to expound at length in that subject. Today, however, there was a worried frown between the culturally required iron helmet and luxuriant beard.

"Ah, Modo," Ridcully hailed cheerfully, "compost piles cookin' along merr'ly?"

The long silence that followed quickly changed the Archchancellor's happy grin into a concerned scowl. Modo's compost piles had, on occasion, developed minds of their own and one had even invaded the University itself in pursuit of faculty members to consume. He'd had to sacrifice a bottle of his prized wow-wow sauce, hurled like a grenade, into its center. The resulting flatulent explosion had taken days to clean up.

"Or, is there a problem?"

"Well, your Worship—it might be better if you came along and saw for yourself."

Some minutes later they rounded the corner of the tall hedge bordering the kitchen gardens and looked into the depths of a crater where once a prized compost heap had been. Raising an eyebrow and readying a number eight fireball

(

Suitable for dinosaur and small armored cars)

, Ridcully slowly approached the edge. Whatever had caused the crater couldn't have been an explosion. The edges of the caldera showed no signs of fire and there were no splotches of steaming vegetation scattered. Rather, it looked like something had corroded the ground away leaving a very deep hole that led down into darkness.

"Modo, ain't the Undertakin' supposed to be comin' our way?"

"Oh no, your Worship. No dwarf in his right mind would dare to try tunneling through the Unreal Estate near the University. Things are dangerous enough underground without disturbing the sort of thing that might live or come alive around here."

Ridcully thought about that in silence and then, licking its tip, held up one index finger. Normally an experienced wizard could read the strength of a magical field from the glow that appeared on the tip. But today, instead of a glow a dark void grew—a small cloud of emptiness that seemed to suck the light in rather than giving it off.

"Seven demned Hells! It's anti-magic. Norm'lly that only occurs around the Things from the Dungeon Dimensions and we haven't had any trouble with them since those moving picture thingamabobs years back. Modo, fence the area off. I want yellow tape strung all 'round this and a sign sayin' that any idiot who tries to cross the line will spend the rest of his life wet and croakin'! And this would have t'happen while Stibbons is back home visitin' his auntie. We could use his expertise in Non-Volatile Intelligence right about now."

And with that he stormed off.

*****

The University Council stood outside Modo's yellow caution tape looking into the small chasm. Every one of them had licked a finger and held it up to confirm their Archchancellor's judgement and, to a wizard they all shook their heads. Anti-magic. It was a subject so uncommon that some of them had had to go to the Library to research it. Naturally, that brought the Librarian into the discussion and he sat with the others, frowning and scratching his chin.

"Ook!"

"Well," the Lecturer in Recent Runes began with a nod, "Mustrum has clacksed both Stibbons and even Archchancellor Henry over at Braceneck so you can see how worried he is. This is calling in the biggest magical siege weaponry around though how much we really have to do or even can do is a good question. But Librarian, as usual, you are our first resource. How many books on Anti-Magic do you think you can lay hands on?"

The Librarian drummed orange furred fingers on the ground for a few moments as he thought it over and then looked up at Runes.

"Ik."

"Is that all?"

"Oh, don't sound so surprised," the Senior Wrangler replied with a note of irritation in his voice, "a book on Anti-magic is almost a negation in terms. Writing one would be like un-writing a book

on

magic. Who would do a thing like that?"

"Hmmpf! Given some of those books he keeps in the basement, unwriting them often sounds like a good idea to me. Why I remember young Applethorpe some years back . . ."

The Librarian got up and knuckled away. Once wizards started bickering or telling tales from 'when I was young' it could go on into the night. He had more important things to do.

*****

In the dark at the bottom of the hole something attempted to think about stirring, though whether it could be said to actually think, or to even know what stirring was, might be going a bit far. Others of its kind were attracted to active magic the way a moth is to a flame, but this Thing had managed to locate the huge source of potential magic that was Unseen University Library. And it craved. It craved what it lacked—heat, light and life. It couldn't know that previous attempts to invade the Disc had all ended very badly

(

Read, "terminally")

for the beings who made the attempt. But something had called it.

C'atalpa was its name, if it had any concept of 'name'. Perhaps it was its title, though it didn't know what a title was, either, and as it tried to attain consciousness, it slowly became aware that it was sitting at the bottom of a deep hole. Mustering some control over an unnecessary number of ill-matched legs, it started to climb.

*****

"But Archchancellor, isn't dealing with ghastly Things with eyes on stalks and tentacles and such the University's job?" Captain Ironfounderson looked at the yellow tape circle dubiously.

"It's this way, Captain," Ridcully explained, "We've never had one show up where we couldn't see it to know what it was. If, in fact, we do have here a Thing From the Dungeon Dimensions we can't use 'ny kind of spell on it. Demned monsters

eat

magic. All we'd do was make it stronger—and bigger! So, we can't scry our way down there. We need livin' eyes. But if it is a Thing, we can't send a volunteer down to go look. 'Might well be a suicide mission, y'know. What we need is yer man Swires 'n' his bird. Chap's fast enough that he could get down, find out what it was and get back to us. That way we'll know whether to use somethin' that would send it back where it came from or just aim a barrage of fireballs down there 'n' incinerate the bugger."

Carrot turned to the fence post where the buzzard Morag perched with Corporal Buggy Swires (

Ankh-Morpork City Watch Aerial Branch)

on its back. "Does that sound feasible, Corporal?"

"Well, Captain," the gnome replied with a smart salute, "it might be easier if I had my old sparrow hawk, but I imagine Morag and I can manage it. Archchancellor, you don't need me to get any closer than it takes to identify it?"