Snuff

the Oblong Office was a world of secrets and considerations and misdirections, where the nature of truth changed like the colors 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?”
    â€œQuite 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.”
    â€œIndeed,” 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?”
    â€œSome 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?”
    â€œI would like to reiterate, sir, that I buy all my own paper clips,” said Drumknott urgently.
    â€œOf course, but in your case I am pleased to say that you have a brain so pristine that it sparkles.”
    â€œI keep the receipts, sir,” Drumknott inisted, “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.”

T he 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 Mr. 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