Chapter Text
Fog sulked over Ankh-Morpork like quilt, smothering sights and sounds alike as it begrudged its way through the late autumn day. In the streets, the wise stuck to the well lit and populous areas, while the opportunistic lurked in side alleys and dingy streets for the irredeemably stupid to amble through.
The Watch was usually busy on these sorts of days.
Its Commander, however, was trudging his way to the Oblong Office (having escaped the notice of his curricle drivers) and muttering under his breath in preparation for his meeting with the Patrician.
The palace was certainly busy, although that was not unusual, no matter the weather. Illuminated in the gloom, there was a great deal of bustling going on inside - clerks ferrying papers and documents, visitors pacing, guards on patrol - however still and stoic the exterior remained. The window of the great Oblong Office glowed in the dense mist, where the Patrician was no doubt at his desk, pulling strings and turning the cogs of the city via ink and paper.
Carriages were common in this part of town either, so no one took notice of a reasonably smart coach pulling up near the gates. One of the occupants inside let out a soft sigh as they looked up at the great dome looming through the clouds.
"And to think, I had such hopes." They turned to the smaller figure, hunched around a large, square object on the opposite seat, and let out another sigh. The small figure seemed to shrink, as if weighed down by the very noise. "Ah well, we learn." The taller of the two reached into an inner pocket and drew out an envelope, which it held out to the other. "I have done all I can for you, my boy, and all I have ever asked in return is for this errand to be completed. Do you think you can manage?"
"Yes ma’am." The small figure whispered.
"Good." The envelope was waved, somewhat impatiently, before it was taken by small, thin fingers. Then the door was opened and the small figure shuffled out, pausing only to watch the carriage disappear into the fog.
***
The problem with the palace, Vimes thought sourly as he lurked next to a pillar to finish his cigar, was that there was always too much going on inside it. One of the problems, he corrected. Among the others were what those things were, how they were going on, and just who was doing them. He glared at a random clerk as they passed, only to be just as firmly ignored.
There was a tug on one of his trouser legs.
He glanced down.
A pair of large hazel-green eyes stared back.
"Are you a watchman?" A voice, as small as the child it came from, asked.
What in the Gods is a kid doing here? Vimes thought, nodding dumbly.
"Mother always said the Watch helps people." It wasn't framed as a question, but the doubt on the child's face was plain as day.
"Yes." Vimes managed. The kid - boy, Vimes corrected, as he did a quick check over the child - was clutching a thick book, bound in green leather. "Yes, we do."
The boy nodded, still mildly unsure.
"I have to deliver this to the Patrician." He showed Vimes an envelope. Thick parchment, the expensive kind, Vimes noted. The lettering was in swirly black ink, the handwriting of a nob no doubt, but when he reached out for it, the boy flinched back. "I'm - only to the Patrician, Mother said."
What kind of kid says Mother? Was the first thought that spun through Sam's head, before the rest narrowed in on the flinch. And the way the child curled in on himself, clutching the book like a lifeline.
Or a shield.
"Alright." He said, slowly. "And where is your mother?"
The boy blinked up at Sam, Sam blinked back.
"In town? I have to deliver this, sir. But I don't know where his office is."
Alone? In Ankh-Morpork? Alright, they were at the palace but still... Vimes stared around at the rush of robes and folders around them as if a woman would magically spring forth from the crowd and reclaim the kid next to him. When nothing happened, he squinted down at the too-small, too-thin child still gripping his trouser seam.
"How old are you, lad?"
"Five and one month, sir."
Vimes hummed.
"I can take you to the Patrician, I'm heading that way myself." He told the boy, straightening from his slouch against the pillar and jamming his helmet back on his head. "Come on, then - what's your name, kid?"
The boy ducked his head and mumbled. Vimes tried not to sigh. One of those names, then. The sort you had to coax out of a child because even they knew it was bloody stupid. He quickly decided that he'd blame not hearing on the noise of the atrium and ask again when there were less potential witnesses around. He thanked whatever deity night be responsible that he was born to sensible parents who thought Robin was pushing it for a boy's name.
Vimes turned to face the throng of miscellaneous clerks and posh gits. He hesitated for a moment before holding out his hand.
He could've sworn the boy looked surprised before relief spread over his face, then Vimes felt frail little fingers wrap around his palm. He nodded at the boy before shouldering his way into the fray.
***
The Oblong Office was still and quiet aside from the scritch-scratch of pen on paper, or occasionally parchment, and the whisper of turned pages. On and off throughout the day, the rhythm was broken by Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician's secretary, rising to fetch or collect folders and move papers between desks. His own desk was a modest size, set to the right of the entrance doors and facing the opposite wall, which housed the fireplace (rarely used). Behind it, a series of small filing cabinets stood to attention next to a unobtrusive door to another room full of a near-obscene number of larger filing cabinets. Despite the reams of paperwork, the desk was clean and tidy, clearly divided into zones according to some unknown (to everyone who did not work in that room) order.
To the right of Drumknott's desk, at the end of a stretch of carpet, was the larger desk of Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Just as neat and concisely organised, but with more gravitas and certainly more hidden objects of varying degrees of sharpness, it faced the room with all the firmness of a full stop at the end of a sentence. Lord Vetinari worked with his back to the great windows of the Office, where the city was usually spread out in all its ambiguous glory to behold. Currently, it held the far more aesthetically pleasing view of varying degrees of grey fog.
Lord Vetinari placed a report on the current status of Lancre imports (low and very sheepy) on the Completed pile and selected a suitably unimportant letter to peruse during his meeting with the Commander of the Watch. He needed Sir Samuel only slightly riled at the end of the next fifteen minutes and divided concentration was usually a good method to ensure this. He heard Drumknott rise from his seat to usher the Commander in as he picked up his pen and prepared to correct the grammatical errors, pausing to allow them time to enter.
He raised his eyes at the longer than usual silence.
The doors at the end of the Office remained closed for a moment longer before they opened to reveal a startled and confused Drumknott, followed by a grim-faced Commander Vimes, followed by -
Vetinari raised an eyebrow at the sight of Sir Samuel Vimes pacing down the carpet towards him so as not to out-march the small child gripping his hand. He placed his pen down on the desk and clasped his hands on the letter in front of him.
"Am I to assume this is a new Watch recruitment initiative, Commander Vimes?" He asked, turning his icy blue gaze on the man.
"No, sir." Vimes grunted. "This one's here to see you."
That got him a look with both raised eyebrows, before the gaze turned, in all its force, on the boy.
He'd seemed slight when they were sat in the waiting room's uncomfortable wooden seats; now they were in the Office, the boy looked tiny. Dressed in dull clothes that were too long at the wrist and waist (and legs), curly black hair flopped about his ears, and eyes on the floor. The lad was gripping the book even tighter now, knuckles white against the green cover.
"How may I help you, Mister... ?"
The boy didn't respond. Probably didn't recognise that he was the one being addressed, Vimes realised.
"Said his name was Lindis, sir." Well, Lindis Michael Cavise the Third, Vimes though, extracting his hand from the child's grip and placing it on his shoulder.
Gods, he could feel nothing but bones beneath the shirt.
Still, he gave a comforting squeeze and pushed the kid forward as firmly as he dared. Lindis seemed to jerk awake, head snapping up as he realised he was supposed to be moving. He shuffled up to the front of the Patrician's desk and tugged the envelope from where he'd stowed it between the pages of his book. He had to stretch on tip-toe to hand over the letter and even then, he could barely reach halfway across.
Good thing the patrician has such a long reach, Vimes thought wryly.
Vetinari plucked the letter from Lindis' grip and looked over the address on the front. Then, he turned it over and studied the red seal closing it. He gave no sign of recognising the crest stamped into it, breaking it with a letter opener after only a moment and unfurling the letter.
Some part of Vimes' brain that came from lizards watching for danger at every moment began to twitch in alarm. The Commander began to notice that the atmosphere around the patrician was becoming colder, stiller, like a glacier beginning to form, although the man’s face betrayed nothing.
Eventually, the letter was laid down on the desk and Lord Vetinari clasped his hands in front of it. He didn’t look at the boy.
“I see.” He started, then paused. “And your mother?”
“She’s - she - she saw me off, sir.” Lindis mumbled at the floor.
The temperature seemed to drop further. Vimes shuffled, frowning at the scene in front of him.
“Do you know what was in that letter, Lindis?” Vetinari, Vimes noticed with a start, was carefully moderating him voice. His tone was soft, almost gentle. With the boy looking back at his feet, there’d be no way for him to recognise the stillness that had Sam himself twitching.
Lindis shook his head. Vetinari hummed in thought.
“What do you think the letter contained?”
There was a long pause. Finally, just as Vetinari seemed about to speak again, the little voice trembled out.
“Mother said that I - I’m a disappointment. Mother has a new son now, so I’m ‘s-surplus to requirements’.” The lad clutched the book tighter. “You c-can turn useless things into useful things, so Mother said I was to come here.”
The Patrician raised his eyes to stare into the distance, mouth flat, seemingly carved from stone. Vimes found himself thinking of Young Sam and he felt his hands curl into fists. He couldn’t stop shaking.
What person - what mother-
He was broken out of his thoughts by Lord Vetinari standing and moving to the front of the desk, next to Lindis.
“I am saddened to say you are entirely accurate.” He appeared to hesitate before laying a thin hand on the boy’s equally thin shoulder. “I am sorry I did not know of you before this day, but I will not turn you away.” The boy scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked up at the patrician, who seemed unsure of how to continue (not that Vimes could blame him, watery child eyes could be a damn weapon at the best of times).
“Why?” Sam found himself growling. “What kind of mother-”
“One who is foolish, selfish, and cruel, I should think.” Vetinari murmured, still studying the boy.
“But that doesn’t explain why she brought him here!” Vimes continued, anger rising. “Why does she think she can just-”
The calm voice of the patrician cut through his fledgling rant with the ease of a sabre through silk.
“Because I am the only other who has the privilege of raising him.”
Vimes stumbled. Lindis’ eyes widened, he straightened slightly, alight with something horribly akin to hope.
“What does that mean?” Vimes demanded. Vetinari turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow.
“This is my son.”