Chris Patterson - Going Postal

‘Ah, gentlemen. So kind of you to come for this little chat,' he said. ‘I was enjoying the view.'

He turned round sharply, and confronted a row of puzzled faces, except for two. One was grey and belonged to Mr Slant, who was the most renowned, expensive and certainly the oldest lawyer in the city. He had been a zombie for many years, although apparently the change in habits between life and death had not been marked. The other face belonged to a man with one eye and one black eye-patch, and it smiled like a tiger.

‘It's particularly refreshing to see the Grand Trunk back in operation,' said Vetinari, ignoring that face. T believe it was shut down all day yesterday. I was only thinking to myself that it was such a shame, the Grand Trunk being so vital to us all, and so regrettable that there's only one of it. Sadly, I understand the backers of the New Trunk are now in disarray, which, of course, leaves the Grand Trunk operating in solitary splendour and your company, gentlemen, unchallenged. Oh, what am I thinking of? Do be seated, gentlemen.'

He gave Mr Slant another friendly smile as he took his seat.

‘I don't believe I know all these gentlemen,' he said.

Mr Slant sighed. ‘My lord, let me present Mr Greenyham of Ankh-Sto Associates, who is the Grand Trunk Company's treasurer, Mr Nutmeg of Sto Plains Holdings, Mr Horsefry of the Ankh-Morpork Mercantile Credit Bank, Mr Stowley of Ankh Futures (Financial Advisers) and Mr Gilt—'

‘—all by himself,' said the one-eyed man calmly.

‘Ah, Mr Reacher Gilt,' said Vetinari, looking directly at him. ‘I'm so... pleased to meet you at last.'

‘You don't come to my parties, my lord,' said Gilt.

‘Do excuse me. Affairs of state take up so much of my time,' said Lord Vetinari brusquely.

‘We should all make time to unwind, my lord. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, as they say.'

Several of the assembly paused in their breathing when they heard this, but Vetinari merely looked blank.

‘Interesting,' he said.

He riffled through the files and opened one of them. ‘Now, my staff have prepared some notes for me, from information publicly available down at the Barbican,' he said to the lawyer. ‘Directorships, for example. Of course, the mysterious world of finance is a closed, aha, ledger to me, but it seems to me that some of your clients work, as it were, for each other?'

‘Yes, my lord?' said Slant.

‘Is that normal?'

‘Oh, it is quite common for people with particular expertise to be on the board of several companies, my lord.'

‘Even if the companies are rivals?' said Vetinari.

There were smiles from around the table. Most of the financiers settled a little more easily in their chairs. The man was clearly a fool about business matters. What did he know about compound interest, eh? He'd been classically educated. And then they remembered his education had been at the Assassins' Guild School, and stopped smiling. But Mr Gilt stared intently at Vetinari.

‘There are ways - extremely honourable ways - of assuring confidentiality and avoiding conflicts of interest, my lord,' said Mr Slant.

‘Ah, this would be... what is it now... the glass ceiling?' said Lord Vetinari brightly.

‘No, my lord. That is something else. I believe you may be thinking about the "Agatean Wall",' said Mr Slant smoothly. ‘This carefully and successfully ensures that there will be no breach of confidentiality should, for example, one part of an organization come into possession of privileged information which could conceivably be used by another department for unethical gain.'

‘This is fascinating! How does it work, exactly?' said Vetinari.

‘People agree not to do it,' said Mr Slant.

‘I'm sorry? I thought you said there is a wall—' said Vetinari.

‘That's just a name, my lord. For agreeing not to do it.'

‘Ah? And they do? How wonderful. Even though in this case the invisible wall must pass through the middle of their brains?'

‘We have a Code of Conduct, you know!' said a voice.

All eyes except those belonging to Mr Slant turned to the speaker, who had been fidgeting in his chair. Mr Slant was a long-time student of the Patrician, and when his subject appeared to be a confused civil servant asking innocent questions it was time to watch him closely.

‘I'm very glad to hear it, Mr... ?' Vetinari began.

‘Crispin Horsefry, my lord, and I don't like the tone of your questioning!'

For a moment it seemed that even the chairs themselves edged away from him. Mr Horsefry was a youngish man, not simply running to fat but vaulting, leaping and diving towards obesity. He had acquired at thirty an impressive selection of chins, and now they wobbled with angry pride.*

* It is wrong to judge by appearances. Despite his expression, which was that of a piglet having a bright idea, and his mode of speech, which might put you in mind of a small, breathless, neurotic but ridiculously expensive dog, Mr Horsefry might well have been a kind, generous and pious man In the same way, the man climbing out of your window in a stripy jumper, a mask and a great hurry might merely be lost on the way to a fancy-dress party, and the man in the wig and robes at the focus of the courtroom might only be a transvestite who wandered in out of the rain Snap judgements can be so unfair.

‘I do have a number of other tones,' said Lord Vetinari calmly.

Mr Horsefry looked around at his colleagues, who were somehow, suddenly, on the distant horizon.

‘I just wanted to make it clear that we've done nothing wrong,' he muttered. ‘That's all. There is a Code of Conduct.'

‘I'm sure I've not suggested that you have done anything wrong,' said Lord Vetinari. ‘However, I shall make a note of what you tell me.'

He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and wrote, in a careful copperplate hand, ‘Code of Conduct'. The shifting of the paper exposed a file marked ‘Embezzlement'. The title was of course upside down to the rest of the group and, since presumably it was not intended to be read by them, they read it. Horsefry even twisted his head for a better view.

‘However,' Vetinari went on, ‘since the question of wrongdoing has been raised by Mr Horsefry,' and he gave the young man a brief smile, ‘I am sure you are aware of talk suggesting a conspiracy amongst yourselves to keep rates high and competition non-existent.' The sentence came out fast and smooth, like a snake's tongue, and the swift flick on the end of it was: ‘And, indeed, some rumours about the death of young Mr Dearheart last month.'

A stir among the semicircle of men said that the shoe had been dropped. It wasn't a welcome shoe, but it was a shoe they had been expecting and it had just gone thud.

‘An actionable falsehood,' said Slant.

‘On the contrary, Mr Slant,' said Vetinari, ‘merely mentioning to you the existence of a rumour is not actionable, as I am sure you are aware.'

‘There is no proof that we had anything to do with the boy's murder,' snapped Horsefry.

‘Ah, so you too have heard people saying he was murdered?' said Vetinari, his eyes on Reacher Gilt's face. ‘These rumours just fly around, don't they...'

‘My lord, people talk,' said Slant wearily. ‘But the facts are that Mr Dearheart was alone in the tower. No one else went up or down. His safety line was apparently not clipped to anything. It was an accident, such as happens often. Yes, we know people say his fingers were broken, but with a fall of that distance, hitting the tower on the way, can that really be surprising? Alas, the Grand Trunk Company is not popular at the moment and so these scurrilous and baseless accusations are made. As Mr Horsefry pointed out, there is no evidence whatsoever that what happened was anything more than a tragic accident. And, if I may speak frankly, what exactly is the purpose of calling us here? My clients are busy men.'