"i can hear you arguing w a policeman and from what i can tell you had to be forcefully removed from a public area because you sat on the ground and refused to move and youre confused about what theyre charging you with" is it???? possibly one of the dumbest things an assassin could do in snapcase era???? yeah it is but honestly I can't decide if police-means-vimes-era is a better time to do it so up to you if you wanna write it (pLeAsE)
Arriving to Ankh-Morpork is always an
experience. The peaks of houses, the crumbling city walls, the noise that
greets you before you enter, the unseen university shifting in and out of view
as fog rolls in from the bay over the city, settling in streets and allies.
Vetinari had not missed the dirt or the smell of the city during his Tour but
there was an undeniable essence of his home that had clung to him as he
travelled and eventually dragged him back. He found that he could run as far as
he wanted from the city but she was always there, in the map-work of his mind,
in his skin itching to go back.
A collection of dead assassins hang from the
city walls at the Hubward Gate as he enters.
He hadn’t missed that, either. Snapcase’s tenuous
hold upon reality had slipped further the longer he was in office.
He searches the bloated faces for recognition and
sees only one he knew well. The others are either too young or too old. There
are wasps settling around the neck. Birds have already come for the eyes and mouth.
They go for the soft bits first.
Upper Broadway has not changed significantly, although a few
shops have turned over in the years of his absence. The flavour of the street,
however, remains that of the wealthy. He lingers around the corner of Upper
Broadway and a small lane called Merkit-Tour where a café had been five years
ago but is no longer. It’s now a haberdashers with the latest head-wear lining
the large street facing windows.
Ahead is the looming bulk of the Patrician’s
Palace. Behind it the Assassins’ Guild, Brass Bridge, lower Broadway, the
declining grandeur of the Opera House. Ankh-Morpork is a gently sinking city
with the inescapable melancholy of place that had once been great but is no
longer. A place that had once been worth something but has somehow forgotten
itself over the years.
Vetinari hoists his bag up and continues
walking. Loath as he is to admit it, he isn’t sure this is the right time to
have returned. Someone hangs from a lamppost. He scours the face, not one he
At least Winder put up a list of names of the
dead; those who had been purged from civic duty and civic life.
Is he looking for one particular face? He isn’t
sure. Yes. Possibly. No. He’d have heard, surely, if anyone important had died.
Someone would have thought to write him saying: you’re no longer Dog-botherer,
by the way.
Is he still Dog-botherer? They’re almost
thirty. Well, Downey will be thirty already and Vetinari is near-enough. Surely
that game has been buried.
Speaking of that game, he can hear a strident
voice saying, ‘no I shall not move.’
That would be Downey. Vetinari sighs.
‘And you will not speak to me in that tone of voice, officer.’
That would be Downey with a Teacher’s Voice, apparently.