Terry Pratchett: Snuff

Uncharacteristically for him, Lord Vetinari laughed out loud. He very nearly gloated at the downfall of his enemy and slammed his copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times , open at the crossword page, on to his desk. ‘Cucumiform, shaped like a cucumber or a variety of squash! I thumb my nose at you, madam!’

Drumknott, who was carefully arranging paperwork, smiled and said, ‘Another triumph, my lord?’ Vetinari’s battle with the chief crossword compiler of the Ankh-Morpork Times was well known.

‘I am sure she is losing her grip,’ said Vetinari, leaning back in his chair. ‘What is it that you have there, Drumknott?’ He pointed at a bulky brown envelope.

‘Commander Vimes’s badge, sir, as delivered to me by Captain Carrot.’

‘Sealed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then it doesn’t have Vimes’s badge in it.’

‘No, sir. A careful fingertip examination of the envelope suggests that it contains an empty tin of Double Thunder snuff. A conclusion confirmed by a casual sniff, my lord.’

A still ebullient Vetinari said, ‘But the captain must have realized this, Drumknott.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of course, that would be in the nature of the commander,’ said Vetinari, ‘and would we have him any other way? He has won a little battle and a man who can win little battles is well set up to win big ones.’

Unusually, Drumknott hesitated a little before saying, ‘Yes, sir. Apropos of that, it was Lady Sybil who suggested the trip to the countryside, was it not?’

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. ‘Why yes, of course, Drumknott. I can’t imagine who would propose otherwise. The brave commander is well known for his dedication to his work. Who else but his loving wife could possibly persuade him that a few weeks of jolly holiday in the countryside would be a good thing?’

‘Who indeed, sir,’ said Drumknott, and left it at that, because there was no point in doing anything else. His master appeared to have sources of information unavailable even to Drumknott, however hard he tried, and only the heavens knew who all those were who scuttled in darkness up the long stairs. And thus life in the Oblong Office was a world of secrets and considerations and misdirections, where the nature of truth changed like the colours of the rainbow. He knew this because he played a not insignificant role in the spectrum. But to know what Lord Vetinari knew and exactly what Lord Vetinari thought would be a psychological impossibility, and a wise man would accept that and get on with his filing.

Vetinari stood up and stared out of the window. ‘This is a city of beggars and thieves, Drumknott, is it not? I pride myself that we have some of the most skilled. In fact, if there were such a thing as an inter-city thieving contest, Ankh-Morpork would bring home the trophy and probably everyone’s wallets. Theft has a purpose, Drumknott, but one intrinsically feels that while there are things by nature unavailable to the common man, there are also things not to be allowed to the rich and powerful.’

Drumknott’s understanding of his master’s thought processes would appear to an outsider to be magical, but it was amazing what could be gleaned by watching what Lord Vetinari was reading, listening to apparently pointless observations and integrating those, as only Drumknott could integrate, into current problems and concerns. He said, ‘Is this now about the smuggling, sir?’

‘Quite so, quite so. I have no problem with smuggling. It involves the qualities of enterprise, stealth and original thinking. Attributes to be encouraged in the common man. In truth, it doesn’t do that much harm and allows the man in the street a little frisson of enjoyment. Everyone should occasionally break the law in some small and delightful way, Drumknott. It’s good for the hygiene of the brain.’

Drumknott, whose cranial cleanness could never be in dispute, said, ‘Nevertheless, sir, taxes must be levied and paid. The city is growing. All of this must be paid for.’

‘Indeed,’ said Vetinari. ‘I could have taxed all kinds of things, but I have decided to tax something that you could eminently do without. It’s hardly addictive, is it?’

‘Some people tend to think so. There is a certain amount of grumbling, sir.’

Vetinari did not look up from his paperwork. ‘Drumknott,’ he said. ‘Life is addictive. If people complain overmuch, I think I will have to draw that fact to their attention.’

The Patrician smiled again and steepled his fingers. ‘In short, Drumknott, a certain amount of harmless banditry amongst the lower classes is to be smiled upon if not actively encouraged, for the health of the city, but what should we do when the highborn and wealthy take to crime? Indeed, if a poor man will spend a year in prison for stealing out of hunger, how high would the gallows need to be to hang the rich man who breaks the law out of greed?’

‘I would like to reiterate, sir, that I buy all my own paperclips,’ said Drumknott urgently.

‘Of course, but in your case I am pleased to say that you have a brain so pristine that it sparkles.’

‘I keep the receipts, sir,’ Drumknott insisted, ‘just in case you wish to see them.’ There was silence for a moment, then he continued. ‘Commander Vimes should be well on his way to the Hall by now, my lord. That might prove a fortunate circumstance.’

Vetinari’s face was blank. ‘Yes indeed, Drumknott, yes indeed.’

The Hall had been a full day’s journey, which in coaching terms really meant two, with a stay at an inn. Vimes spent the time listening for the sound of overtaking horsemen from the city bringing much to be desired news of dire catastrophe. Usually Ankh-Morpork could supply this on an almost hourly basis but now it was singularly failing to deliver its desperate son in his hour of vegetation.

The other sun was setting on this particular son when the coach pulled up outside a pair of gates. After a second or two, an elderly man, an extremely elderly man, appeared from nowhere and made a great show of opening said gates, then stood to attention as the coach went through, beaming in the knowledge of a job well done. Once inside, the coach stopped.

Sybil, who had been reading, nudged her husband without looking up from her book and said, ‘It’s customary to give Mister Coffin a penny. In the old days my grandfather kept a little charcoal brazier in the coach, you know, in theory to keep warm but mostly to heat up pennies to red heat before picking them up in some tongs and tossing them out for the gatekeeper to catch. Apparently everybody enjoyed it, or so my grandfather said, but we don’t do that any more.’

Vimes fumbled in his purse for some small change, opened the carriage door and stepped down, much to the shock of the aforesaid Mr Coffin, who backed away into the thick undergrowth, watching Vimes like a cornered animal.

‘Nice job, Mister Coffin, very good lifting of the latch there, excellent work.’ Vimes proffered the coin and Mr Coffin backed further away, his stance suggesting that he was going to bolt at any moment. Vimes flicked the coin in the air and the fearful man caught it, deftly spat on it and melted back into the scenery. Vimes got the impression that he resented the lack of hiss.

‘How long ago did your family stop throwing hot money at the servants?’ he said, settling back into his seat as the coach progressed.

Sybil laid aside her book. ‘My father put a stop to it. My mother complained. So did the gatekeepers.’

‘I should think so!’

‘No, Sam, they complained when the custom was stopped.’

‘But it’s demeaning!’

Sybil sighed. ‘Yes, I know, Sam, but it was also free money, you see. In my great-grandfather’s day, if things were busy, a man might make sixpence in a day. And since the old boy was almost permanently sozzled on rum and brandy he quite often threw out a dollar. One of the real old-fashioned solid-gold dollars, I mean. A man could live quite well for a year on one of those, especially out here.’