by 'Terri Pratchett' ... !
Even a Lord can face pecuniary embarrassment. Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh Morpork, had been leaning heavily for some time on the advice of Maxim Groveller, current financial advisor to the Assassins Guild, and invested a considerable amount of his personal wealth in doodlebugs. These, he was assured, were to be the thrilling future of the Post Office: unusually large insects discovered in the Octarine Grass Country, especially bred and trained to carry parcels between the mushrooming mail order giant Riverankh and its thousands of enthusiastic customers. Unfortunately for the Patrician and the other select shareholders in BizzyBuggy Inc., doodlebugs turned out to be the favourite lunch of the city’s feral dragons who would swoop on them as they buzzed across the Ankh - so the revolutionary delivery system was rapidly and irreversibly dead in the water.
Lord Vetinari gazed disconsolately around the Oblong Office. The only immediate route to disposable income was to dispose of his forbears. They glared at him from their gilded cages around the walls. The work of the artist who had painted all of them over the millennia, and who would immortalise Havelock himself, without warts (one’s image is most important) when he met his eventual demise, sold reasonably well and might be expected to raise a sum sufficient to keep him in Ghlen Livid until the remorseful day. Leonardo Tipsi had worked from his aromatic studio in Omnia for more generations than anyone could remember; self-portraits always showed him with a paint-spattered overall and straggly white beard, and he was rumoured - though it was never proved - to have fled from the Lost Continent of Ku just as it disappeared forever into the ocean. Lately, the name Tipsi had been appearing on city walls as far afield as Klatch and Überwald, under subversive drawings of the local low-life, so many houses and businesses now only had three sides and a tarpaulin as their delighted owners cashed in on the elusive artist’s novel enterprise. This would surely add some cachet to the gloomy canvases? The Patrician wondered if he could persuade him to vandalise one of the Palace’s smaller out-buildings. An auction of apparently daring Tipsis on such prestigious walls could solve all his fiscal problems at a stroke and guarantee free demolition of his redundant annexe.
“Surlish,” he said to his one remaining valet, “Get Tipsi for me.”
“My Lord?”
“Ah. No. Please, Surlish, fetch me the Court Painter.”
“My Lord, it grieves me to say that I cannot.”
“Cannot? Why is this?”
“My Lord, he is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where, Surlish?”
“Deceased, Sire. Gone to the great Studio in the Sky.”
“This is unbelievable! When and how did this occur? What is your source?”
“It is all over the Clacks, my Lord. He was chalking a large ... member ... on the clock tower in Sator Square at midnight when a straw blew onto the mechanism and the entire set of chimes fell on his head.”
“Surlish, his paintings will double in value!”
“Alas, yours will not be among them, Sire.”
That could present a problem further down the line ... but it wouldn’t be his problem, as he would by then be personally chatting to Tipsi and all his own departed relatives.
“Get me Gavelling.”
Surlish smartened hmself up sufficiently to present himself at the office of the Ankh-Morpork Auctioneer.
“The Patrician requests your presence, Mr. Gavelling.”
“Indeed? Does he require a private viewing?”
“Ah ... no. He is resolved on a sale.”
“A sale! Why so? With what would his Lordship grace our humble auction?”
“The fiscal climate has not been kind to him, Mr. Gavelling. He wishes to convert his forbears into liquid assets.”
“The Tipsis?!”
“The very same.”
“Alas, Mr. Surlish, with the greatest respect, no-one will touch them. Despite the fame of the late Leonardo, his pre-sgraffito style is now utterly passé. The portraits are worth more to the Palace as insulation. But ... I have an idea!”
Over gold-rimmed cups of Klatchian coffee the Patrician and his Auctioneer regarded each other thoughtfully.
“You have an alternative proposal, Mr. Gavelling?”
“I have, my Lord. You have a cousin. Jack Vetinari.”
“That inarticulate layabout who went off to Pseudopolis and drank everything the family were foolish enough to send him?”
“My Lord, Jack Vetinari took to painting. His works ‘The Whistling Golem’ and ‘Dance Me To The Edge Of The Rim’ grace living-rooms and stationers all over the Disc. If you were to acquire the originals I believe the investment would solve all your immediate problems. But there is a catch.” Gavelling looked askance at the Patrician. “The canvases are no longer in your cousin’s possession.”
“Then requisition them! On my orders! What could be simpler?”
“My Lord, on one recent, particularly festive Hogswatch they passed into the hands of two ... er ... very popular ladies, in return for extraordinary favours. I rather doubt that these ... er ... romantic gifts would be willingly surrendered. You may, my Lord, find it necessary to negotiate.”
“With women ?”
“To be precise - with the Honourable Tansy Strapping and Lady Pulcherrima Gland.”
The Patrician visibly paled. He had managed to keep the so-called fairer sex at bay for most of his life ... and now his very survival meant engaging with two of the highest-profile, lowest-cleavage B-listers in Hi-Yah! magazine.
“Sire, do you wish me to summon the ladies?” Surlish had been silent, his impassive features hiding a turmoil of racy memories and surprisingly naughty thoughts.
“Yes, Surlish, I’m afraid you will have to. Mr. Gavelling, thank you for your advice; Surlish will accompany you to the door.”
The coffee-cups were out again; scarlet roses and golden lilies spilled out of every ancient vase in the Oblong Office. Havelock Vetinari never, ever betrayed his feelings - but blood smeared the quicks around his immaculate nails. Surlish had appeared carrying a wriggling bundle - and now a very small sunset-pink dragon was curled at the Patrician’s feet, squeaking for attention.
“Oh, how cute !”
The exotic body of Lady Pulcherrima Gland undulated through the mighty double doors and overwhelmed the room with Pure Poisson. The huge baby eyes of the dragon glowed as she bent to stroke it, revealing such curves as Havelock had only imagined in his most disturbed sleep. A long, slender blue tongue flickered up her silky legs. Surlish stifled a groan.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Lady Gland.”
“Thank you.” She rearranged her knees. “What can I do for you?”
“We are waiting for one more guest; then we have a little matter to discuss.”
Five uneasy minutes later Surlish again swung the great doors open to admit the Honourable Tansy Strapping. She creaked like an Igor as she strode across the parquet,
every inch of her squeezed into maraschino leather.
“See to my horse, fellow,” she said. “Vetinari, we meet at last!”
“Ladies,” said the Patrician. “you each have something eminently desirable which would, I understand, bring me considerable material relief.”
Both women leaned closer to their host...
“Our experience is at your service ... Havelock.” Lady Gland was almost purring.
“Ah! No ... Ladies, you each possess a precious canvas, an original Jack Vetinari. I wish to come to some agreement. The paintings, by a member of my own family, should belong to the Palace. What are your terms?”
Lady Pulcherrima stepped back and took the Honourable Tansy by a muscular arm.
“We did not come here to be exploited ...” “Nor insulted ...” “The paintings were gifts ...” “Of great sentimental value ...” “We have no business here.”
Just as the ladies turned on their expensive heels, Surlish moved rapidly forward and whispered with unusual animation into his master’s ear.
Then: “Lady Gland. Miss Tansy. My predicament is such that I am obliged to take a drastic step, unprecedented in my ...hrrrm... years as ruler of Ankh-Morpork. I am willing - subject to the canvas passing into my possession, thence to be sold to defray the Palace debt - to offer one of you my hand in marriage.”
Neither lady, despite appearances, was any longer in the first flush of her youth. Both had secretly considered retirement and wondered who would now have them. This was a singular opportunity to secure prestige and pampering into their old age. They glared at each other.
“My Lord, I accept!” they exclaimed in unison.
Surlish hastened to Havelock’s ear once more.
“There is apparently a precedent for the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to take more than one wife. The offer is therefore open to both of you. And you would be company for each other,” added the desperate Lord, thinking, “and maybe they would leave me alone.”
Ankh-Morpork had never seen such celebrations. The river pageantry of the double wedding filled a whole issue of Hi-Yah!, and even reclusive cousin Jack turned up to toast the good fortune of his former consorts. He was now so rich that he bought back his own canvases, the Palace was saved, and Havelock Vetinari settled back into an interesting old age with bosom friends who at last could shelve their plans for a Civil Partnership.
...........................................................................................................................................................................
Lord Vetinari gazed disconsolately around the Oblong Office. The only immediate route to disposable income was to dispose of his forbears. They glared at him from their gilded cages around the walls. The work of the artist who had painted all of them over the millennia, and who would immortalise Havelock himself, without warts (one’s image is most important) when he met his eventual demise, sold reasonably well and might be expected to raise a sum sufficient to keep him in Ghlen Livid until the remorseful day. Leonardo Tipsi had worked from his aromatic studio in Omnia for more generations than anyone could remember; self-portraits always showed him with a paint-spattered overall and straggly white beard, and he was rumoured - though it was never proved - to have fled from the Lost Continent of Ku just as it disappeared forever into the ocean. Lately, the name Tipsi had been appearing on city walls as far afield as Klatch and Überwald, under subversive drawings of the local low-life, so many houses and businesses now only had three sides and a tarpaulin as their delighted owners cashed in on the elusive artist’s novel enterprise. This would surely add some cachet to the gloomy canvases? The Patrician wondered if he could persuade him to vandalise one of the Palace’s smaller out-buildings. An auction of apparently daring Tipsis on such prestigious walls could solve all his fiscal problems at a stroke and guarantee free demolition of his redundant annexe.
“Surlish,” he said to his one remaining valet, “Get Tipsi for me.”
“My Lord?”
“Ah. No. Please, Surlish, fetch me the Court Painter.”
“My Lord, it grieves me to say that I cannot.”
“Cannot? Why is this?”
“My Lord, he is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where, Surlish?”
“Deceased, Sire. Gone to the great Studio in the Sky.”
“This is unbelievable! When and how did this occur? What is your source?”
“It is all over the Clacks, my Lord. He was chalking a large ... member ... on the clock tower in Sator Square at midnight when a straw blew onto the mechanism and the entire set of chimes fell on his head.”
“Surlish, his paintings will double in value!”
“Alas, yours will not be among them, Sire.”
That could present a problem further down the line ... but it wouldn’t be his problem, as he would by then be personally chatting to Tipsi and all his own departed relatives.
“Get me Gavelling.”
Surlish smartened hmself up sufficiently to present himself at the office of the Ankh-Morpork Auctioneer.
“The Patrician requests your presence, Mr. Gavelling.”
“Indeed? Does he require a private viewing?”
“Ah ... no. He is resolved on a sale.”
“A sale! Why so? With what would his Lordship grace our humble auction?”
“The fiscal climate has not been kind to him, Mr. Gavelling. He wishes to convert his forbears into liquid assets.”
“The Tipsis?!”
“The very same.”
“Alas, Mr. Surlish, with the greatest respect, no-one will touch them. Despite the fame of the late Leonardo, his pre-sgraffito style is now utterly passé. The portraits are worth more to the Palace as insulation. But ... I have an idea!”
Over gold-rimmed cups of Klatchian coffee the Patrician and his Auctioneer regarded each other thoughtfully.
“You have an alternative proposal, Mr. Gavelling?”
“I have, my Lord. You have a cousin. Jack Vetinari.”
“That inarticulate layabout who went off to Pseudopolis and drank everything the family were foolish enough to send him?”
“My Lord, Jack Vetinari took to painting. His works ‘The Whistling Golem’ and ‘Dance Me To The Edge Of The Rim’ grace living-rooms and stationers all over the Disc. If you were to acquire the originals I believe the investment would solve all your immediate problems. But there is a catch.” Gavelling looked askance at the Patrician. “The canvases are no longer in your cousin’s possession.”
“Then requisition them! On my orders! What could be simpler?”
“My Lord, on one recent, particularly festive Hogswatch they passed into the hands of two ... er ... very popular ladies, in return for extraordinary favours. I rather doubt that these ... er ... romantic gifts would be willingly surrendered. You may, my Lord, find it necessary to negotiate.”
“With women ?”
“To be precise - with the Honourable Tansy Strapping and Lady Pulcherrima Gland.”
The Patrician visibly paled. He had managed to keep the so-called fairer sex at bay for most of his life ... and now his very survival meant engaging with two of the highest-profile, lowest-cleavage B-listers in Hi-Yah! magazine.
“Sire, do you wish me to summon the ladies?” Surlish had been silent, his impassive features hiding a turmoil of racy memories and surprisingly naughty thoughts.
“Yes, Surlish, I’m afraid you will have to. Mr. Gavelling, thank you for your advice; Surlish will accompany you to the door.”
The coffee-cups were out again; scarlet roses and golden lilies spilled out of every ancient vase in the Oblong Office. Havelock Vetinari never, ever betrayed his feelings - but blood smeared the quicks around his immaculate nails. Surlish had appeared carrying a wriggling bundle - and now a very small sunset-pink dragon was curled at the Patrician’s feet, squeaking for attention.
“Oh, how cute !”
The exotic body of Lady Pulcherrima Gland undulated through the mighty double doors and overwhelmed the room with Pure Poisson. The huge baby eyes of the dragon glowed as she bent to stroke it, revealing such curves as Havelock had only imagined in his most disturbed sleep. A long, slender blue tongue flickered up her silky legs. Surlish stifled a groan.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Lady Gland.”
“Thank you.” She rearranged her knees. “What can I do for you?”
“We are waiting for one more guest; then we have a little matter to discuss.”
Five uneasy minutes later Surlish again swung the great doors open to admit the Honourable Tansy Strapping. She creaked like an Igor as she strode across the parquet,
every inch of her squeezed into maraschino leather.
“See to my horse, fellow,” she said. “Vetinari, we meet at last!”
“Ladies,” said the Patrician. “you each have something eminently desirable which would, I understand, bring me considerable material relief.”
Both women leaned closer to their host...
“Our experience is at your service ... Havelock.” Lady Gland was almost purring.
“Ah! No ... Ladies, you each possess a precious canvas, an original Jack Vetinari. I wish to come to some agreement. The paintings, by a member of my own family, should belong to the Palace. What are your terms?”
Lady Pulcherrima stepped back and took the Honourable Tansy by a muscular arm.
“We did not come here to be exploited ...” “Nor insulted ...” “The paintings were gifts ...” “Of great sentimental value ...” “We have no business here.”
Just as the ladies turned on their expensive heels, Surlish moved rapidly forward and whispered with unusual animation into his master’s ear.
Then: “Lady Gland. Miss Tansy. My predicament is such that I am obliged to take a drastic step, unprecedented in my ...hrrrm... years as ruler of Ankh-Morpork. I am willing - subject to the canvas passing into my possession, thence to be sold to defray the Palace debt - to offer one of you my hand in marriage.”
Neither lady, despite appearances, was any longer in the first flush of her youth. Both had secretly considered retirement and wondered who would now have them. This was a singular opportunity to secure prestige and pampering into their old age. They glared at each other.
“My Lord, I accept!” they exclaimed in unison.
Surlish hastened to Havelock’s ear once more.
“There is apparently a precedent for the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to take more than one wife. The offer is therefore open to both of you. And you would be company for each other,” added the desperate Lord, thinking, “and maybe they would leave me alone.”
Ankh-Morpork had never seen such celebrations. The river pageantry of the double wedding filled a whole issue of Hi-Yah!, and even reclusive cousin Jack turned up to toast the good fortune of his former consorts. He was now so rich that he bought back his own canvases, the Palace was saved, and Havelock Vetinari settled back into an interesting old age with bosom friends who at last could shelve their plans for a Civil Partnership.
...........................................................................................................................................................................