Chapter Text
[The following letter is a transcript, decoded from a unique variant of Omnian skipping cipher. The original should only be handled with rubber gloves, due to non-trace amounts of dried frog-based neurotoxin soaked into the paper. In the event of accidental skin contact, do your best to keep still and remember that acknowledging the spiders will only encourage them.]
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To my only aunt,
I write to you on the fourth day of my trip, simply because it is the first day anything of note has happened. I am not, as your previous letters suggested, 'dead in a ditch somewhere'. What I am, however, is very much 'hanging out with the wrong crowd', as my classmates have so far refused to die from some amusing tourism-induced incident and therefore still haunt me with their presence.
I will not deign to answer all your questions, as many of them disrespect my agency as a recent Assassin's guild graduate (cum laude, might I add) and a fully grown adult who can make all the necessary decisions on frequency of undergarment changes (once per day) on his very own.
I will, however, attempt to answer how I'm feeling, though that too is a loaded question.
How am I feeling about having to flee my city after our revolution ate its young before even giving them a chance to grow their baby teeth? How am I feeling after seeing the tyrant we’ve fought so hard to replace the previous tyrant with immediately start a political purge without as much as a head start for old times sake? How am I feeling after failing to save the one man who gave me a fleeting hope that this rotten heap of a city might be remotely salvageable?
Not particularly good.
How am I feeling about said political purge forcing me to lay low by going on a road trip in the company of Ankh Morpork’s most inbred bachelors?
It would be callous of me to say 'even worse', so I won't do so.
Madam, it is a veritable horror show of who's who,
Selachii, Venturi, Downey, Cruces, Roberts and Ludorum, proud owners of half of Ankh, three brain cells, 6 freshly printed licenses to kill for profit and a shared belief that a lack of moral fiber is something you should take prunes for.
All I have to cling to, is the knowledge that our generation has at the very least not been blessed with a spawn of Rust as well.
But back to the promised one-thing-of-note .
Shortly after arriving at our latest gloomy mountain town, we've received a mysteriously delivered invitation to a private dinner. It came from the local reclusive noblewoman whose bat-infested castle towers ominously above the settlement and whose name the locals refuse to utter aloud.
She is very clearly a vampire.
I had not mentioned it to the others at the time, as I thought it obvious, should one know at the very least a smidge of Uberwaldian geopolitical history. I am of course an idiot and had forgotten it's called 'Grand Sneer' and not 'Grand Chance for Respectful Cultural Enrichment by Going Abroad'.
Thinking back of the letter, it might've even been too obvious. The bat on wax seal, the sheer, unnecessary amount of bite-themed puns, the fact the word “ for ” in the sentence “ vould love to have you for ze dinner ” was underlined three times, the bona-fide speckle of blood by the signature....
I’m beginning to think the whole thing might've been a beautifully engineered trap, capturing only the most obnoxious of tourists and repelling those with any shred of common sense A sort of a psychological filter similar to those horribly misspelled letters about down-on-their-luck Genuan Princes and whatnot that only need a couple of dollars to get back on their feet before leaving your their entire kingdom. (side note; Does the blood of idiots taste better? It would certainly explain Selachii’s mosquito problem.)
The locals have, at first, tried their very best to warn us, inundating us with garlic, stones with holes in them (apparently extremely mystical), sacred crocodile teeth, which I very much suspect are actually filed down pig knuckles and something called CMOT Dibbler's " Bite-Off" , Genuine Vampyre & Ofther Undead Beastie Repellent [2 AM$] . I've even been given a stray onion, owing perhaps to some good natured confusion on interchangeably of aromatics. I have fed it to the village pig, whose hooves were indeed looking quite trim.
You'll note I said 'at first', as their efforts have subsided notably after getting to know us better.
They're used to the occasional Ankh-Morpork tourist, but their village must've so far avoided the full brunt of a Grand Sneer.
It's hard to say what was it that pushed them over the edge. It could've been anything, Downey calling the mayor a 'scag', Ludo accusing the innkeeper of poisoning us via a local dish that included seasonings outside salt, pepper and ketchup, Roberts continuously trying to explain why the village’s name is actually incredibly amusing, Cruces falling into the turnip fermenter or perhaps Venturi and Selachii interrupting a council meeting by announcing they'll (once again) duel to their death.
I suspect it might've been the latter. Being promised you'll witness at least one of them dying horribly, then seeing them stop and huff away without so much as a crippling injury is always devastating and must be a level of mental torture hitherto unknown to these parts.
By evening, their valiant efforts to keep us and our blood united in one mortal body have turned into enthusiastic attempts to make us leave faster. I do not blame them one bit and the maps, brochures and the promise of an early morning coach ride they helpfully provided for us will come in handy.
I have used some of the garlic and my toxicology kit to fashion some discreet pellets. The trip so far has been loathsome and the chance to finally supplement guild's underfunded in-human inhumation curriculum with a practical example might just be my only respite on this truly harrowing journey you've sent me on.
Your only nephew,
Havelock Vetinari.
PS. I will not 'just make friends', I refuse to do so and I'd be most grateful if you stopped demanding it of me.
PPS. I'd also be grateful if you could use your network to investigate this “Dibbler” individual. Anyone with enough “entrepreneurial spirit” to successfully sell what appears to be stale hot-dog water to a village of hardened vampire survivors should be kept a close eye on.
***
Originally sent from:
Village of Bonk, Central Überwald
29th of May, year of Inquisitive Squirrel