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The skin prickled on the back of Moist's neck as he exited the Patrician's palace.
There was the sound of a match striking, followed by the familiar sound of a tobacco product being set alight. Moist turned.
Leaning up against the wall by the palace doors, lighting a cigar with his hands cupped against a non-existent wind, was Commander Vimes.
"Afternoon, Mr Lipwig," he said, touching the brim of his helmet.
"Afternoon," said Moist surveying the man in front of him.
To look at him, without knowing anything about who he was, you might have given him the rank of an old sergeant, or a captain if you were feeling very generous. He had shaved that morning, certainly, but either in the way he shaved or just in the nature of his face he had a permanent scruff that threatened to make him look grizzled at a moment's notice. He wore a dinged up standard watchman's uniform, as comfortable to him as a second skin. Possibly even more so. There was even rust on his chainmail! That was a nice touch.
Nothing set him apart from the rest of the watch other than the commander insignia above his badge and, if you were looking for it, something about his manner. He radiated the quiet confidence of someone who, well, commanded , and didn't much care what others thought of how he did it.
If Commander Vimes's armour had been a suit, Moist would have said it needed a good ironing.
"Productive meeting?" Vimes was saying, shaking out the match and closing an expensive-looking silver cigar case with a snap (this, too, looked like it had been bashed around a bit).
"Aren't they all?" Moist replied, watching Vimes carefully place the cigar case in his pocket.
Vimes barked a laugh, and it really was a bark.
"You'd be amazed," Vimes said, "Depends how benevolent he's feeling."
Or how much he feels like winding you up, Moist thought, staring at the other man's built-in scowl.
There was a silence then, and Vimes sat in it happily. Eyes as much aglow as the end of the cigar he puffed on, peering out at Moist from below the brim of his helmet.
As much as Moist was assessing Vimes, Vimes was assessing him. Probably more so. Vimes was one of those born and bred coppers who had a better nose than a werewolf's for sniffing out a crook.
Moist wondered what the Commander was sniffing out on him right now. He had the unnerving feeling that this was a man who saw him through the golden suit.
Not one to fall victim to the trap of an uncomfortable silence, Moist seized it by the reigns and steered them back onto his territory - words with far too many possible meanings.
"You know, obviously we know who the other is but I don't think we've been formally introduced," Moist held out his hand and smiled. It wasn't his most winning smile - he had a suspicion that the commander was a great despiser of a smile that was too big for its britches - but it was a respectable runner up with an honourable mention.
"Moist Von Lipwig, Postmaster General," he went on, watching Vimes watch him, "And you, I gather, are Sir Samuel Vimes, commander of the city watch."
Vimes glanced down at Moist's hand and took it firmly, not bothering to stand up from the wall.
"The very same," he said.
They shook and Moist applied one of the slightly less honest handshakes from his repertoire. He had a feeling Vimes had an appreciation for the honesty of the dishonest.
Indeed, a small crease of a smile seemed to be forming reluctantly in the lines of the commander's face.
People . Moist was good at people. Vimes may be a formidable bastard of a copper, but he was still people.
But a copper all the same. And one who apparently had a thing for sticking his nose everywhere. There had to be a reason he was waiting out here for Moist.
"Oh- but you're a Duke aren't you?" Moist said brightly, "That's above Commander. So is it, Duke Vimes? Or Your Grace?"
A muscle twitched in Vimes's face, as though he'd been expecting the wince and had prepared his expression accordingly.
"Commander Vimes while I'm on duty, Mr. Lipwig, if it's all the same," he said, with the tone of voice that said just try to see what would happen if it wasn't all the same , "Sir Samuel at a pinch when I'm not. Though it's unlikely you'll see me when I'm not."
How interesting, thought Moist.
He'd heard about the Honourable Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch and Duke of Ankh-Morpork. You started to hear about such people once you settled into a place for a while. Especially somewhere like the post office where it seemed liked the rumour mill congregated with some routine. Richest man in Ankh-Morpork, it was said, by marriage, and second most powerful man here too. Apparently the assassins had even taken him off their register of possible targets, which, according to rumour, had only ever been done for one other man and that was the Patrician himself.
All of that power, influence, and outright capital was packaged in an unkempt, scowling Watchman probably in his fifties with a bulk to him that Moist would wager was a result of 'marital bliss' and a diet fuelled whatever greasy food joint was open at 3am.
He wore no wedding ring on his finger, but Moist suspected that was with the wisdom of a man who had been in one too many street melees and seen firsthand where jewellery got you in a pinch. This, usually, was to be be-lighted of both the jewellery and the appendage it was attached to.
Everything about Vimes set off cautionary alarm bells in the back of Moist's mind. Even if he hadn't been a copper, in Moist's previous profession he would have been an extremely risky mark. He watched. Everything, always. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed but he didn't need to be. A hammer was as blunt as they came but if you tried to sell it a piece of glass as a diamond in a ring, well, what does a hammer do best?
Yes, Vimes would have been a very, very risky mark indeed.
Risky.
But not impossible.
And if Albert Spangler had been bored enough for the challenge...
"Sorry?" Moist said, realising Vimes had been speaking.
"I said you drift off more than I do, Mr. Lipwig," Vimes was grinning at him in a way that Moist would not call friendly, "Are they letting you get enough sleep over at the post office, Postmaster? Only I didn't think you lads did night shifts."
Ah! There was something, a little one-upmanship. Was Vimes here to test him, perhaps? See if he was worthy of the rigours of government service?
"Burning the midnight oil to get it all up and running again, you know how it is," Moist said, not even sure how much he was lying.
Vimes hummed in flat, indifferent acknowledgement.
How to play this, Moist thought, one-upmanship was not a contest he would win wisely here. One-downmanship was always an option but it would probably lead to admitting some things you do not want to admit to any copper, never mind the Commander of the Watch.
Maybe some classic sugar coated antagonism then? Besides he was... curious about the commander. Something about him set Moist on edge more than your average Watchman.
"Actually I was just wondering something," Moist said aloud, "You're a duke right?
"So they tell me."
"Right, and Commander of the Guard, Knight of the Realm and all that?"
"Don't forget Blackboard Monitor," said Vimes, apparently to his own amusement.
"O...kay," said Moist, filing away that particular accolade although not sure why, "So, right, so all those big important titles. People who don't rank half as high as you are at those big meetings covered in ribbons and braids and gold while you don't even have a single plume in your helmet. So what is it? Why dress like a regular old beat copper?” Is it a class loyalty thing? Moist added to himself, A power trip? Out loud he did say: “Why not dress the part? "
Commander Vimes looked up at Moist's hat. Moist suddenly felt very naked and more than a little silly.
He met Moist's eyes again and held his gaze silently. Moist could feel his skin crawling to escape those watchful eyes.
"There are a lot of answers I could give you, Mr. Lipwig. Wearing the same uniform as my men keeps me approachable, I've found looking more like a sergeant than a commander has helped me out more than once, it pisses off the Lords in the rat chamber, and so on." Vimes smiled, "But I can see you're a man who appreciates honesty."
Moist got the impression that, on the inside, Vimes was winking at him.
He flicked the ash off the end of his cigar and finally pushed himself away from the wall and towards Moist.
The smell of Vimes's cigar smoke wound around Moist as the Commander stepped forward. He was no stranger to being enveloped in secondhand smoke. Where Miss Dearheart's light, sharp cigarette smoke attacked Moist's nasal cavity directly, the heavy, mulchy scent of Vimes's cigar sat lower, taking residence in the back of Moist's throat. Most of all though, Moist noticed, that cigar was cheap. A stint of studying tobacco products had been useful for a previous 'job' and that told him now that Vimes's cigars were not far off the cheapest you could buy.
All that money and Commander Duke Sir Samuel Blackboard Monitor Vimes still smoked cheap cigars.
Vimes was shorter than Moist, but he acted like he was bigger, puffing out his chest and drawing his shoulders back so he didn't have to crane his neck so much to look up at him. Moist's imagination gave him the image of a terrier squaring up to a Lipwigzer.
"You know back in my day, Mr. Lipwig, when I was learning the walk, they used to teach us to kick a crook in the nadgers if we had any particularly strong feelings on the matter of their crimes. That sort of direct police brutality is frowned upon in the modern Watch, of course. Captain Carrot says it 'undermines the trust we build in the community' and I'm inclined to agree with him."
Vimes took another drag of his cigar and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Moist.
"But you see, Mr. Lipwig, there are people out there who are real criminals, big time bastards, who think that, because they've wound up with a bunch of money or titles, the law can no longer touch them. They have their lawyers and their paperwork and they'll tell you 'Oh it's all perfectly legal officer, I can assure you' and I'll tell you what I wouldn't give to walk into those swanky offices and treat 'em all to a Vimes Kneecap Special to the crotch, well..." Vimes sighed, "But that's not how the world works, is it? You need evidence , because it's not really about a copper taking the law into his own hands, it's when a copper decides that the law doesn't apply to him that the whole system falls apart. So you wait and you watch, and a Watchman gets very good at those I'll tell you that. And you keep watching and then, one day, something sticks. Something they can't weasel their way out of with fancy words and small print. And that's when I turn up at their doors. Not a ribbon, not a braid, not a plume or even a thread of gold in sight. Just some rough, beaten up old copper from Cockbill Street who joined the watch so he and his old mum could put food on the table. A kid like that isn't fit to scrounge for scraps in their eyes but there I am. And I get to clap 'em in cuffs and read 'em their rights all good and proper. All by the book, all the paperwork properly filled in. Done in by a bloke who won't even pay a man to shine his armour for him," Vimes grinned wickedly, "I'd say that's better than any kick in the nadgers, wouldn't you?"
Moist blinked.
"You find help can come from some unexpected places in life, Mr. Lipwig," Vimes said, apparently remembering his cigar was slowly burning out and returning it to his mouth.
You had to hand it to him, or he'd probably arrest you for obstruction of justice, but Vimes really did have a way with words.
Not in the way that Moist did, which got you out of trouble most of the time, but in his own special way, which Moist could only imagine got him into trouble and then kept him barrelling through it like a troll through a plasterboard wall. Moist could suddenly see why the Patrician liked having him around. He made pissing people off into an unintentional artform.
"Help from unexpected places," Moist said, letting the speech catch up with him, "Like... ghosts?"
Vimes took another drag and breathed in through his teeth. He held it in his chest while he spoke.
"Like ghosts, Mr. Lipwig."
He exhaled through the corner of his mouth again.
"Like. Specifically the words of dead men on the clacks, perhaps?"
"Yes, specifically all that business with clacks, come on , man."
So that was it.
There was no way Vimes believed that it was actually ghosts who sent that message on the clacks. Spike had called him a cynical bastard by her account and that ascended him to the upper echelons of Cynical Old Bastards.
So he knew Moist had to have done something, to have been involved somehow. He'd be able to feel it in his gut, wouldn't he? Bloody watchmen. But it couldn't be proved, and, well, it had worked out, hadn't it? Handed over a sticky platter of law-dodging criminals for Commander Vimes to arrest with great ceremony in the middle of a room full anyone who was anyone in Ankh-Morpork. And if those men could be arrested, well, who's to say it couldn't happen to anyone else in this room, the onlookers must've thought, perhaps they'd tread with more care.
And Vimes knew people, didn't he? In his own particular way. Moist would bet he knew when it was worth letting other people believe even if he didn't.
"Cigar?" said Vimes and pulled out and clicked open the cigar case with a practiced single movement, holding it out to Moist.
"Oh- thank you, I don't smoke, but er-" Moist looked into Vimes's eyes. They stared back levelly and gave away nothing. Would accepting the cigar be as good as admission? It's not like they'd be able to pin anything on him for just accepting an offered cigar, right? Even in Ankh-Morpork that wouldn't land. And if he didn't accept it... what then?
And then it dawned on Moist.
In a weird, roundabout, 'I can't admit that I know but I do know and now you know that I know and I know that you know and we both know that we both know' kind of way, this was Vimes saying thank you, wasn't it? Or at least saying 'I might not like you but we got the buggers so I'll give you some credit'.
"...but I know someone who does," Moist took a cigar.
Vimes nodded curtly and placed the cigar case reverently back in his pocket.
"This is my city, Mr. Lipwig. Vetinari’s the man you put on all your one penny stamps, but it's my city."
And that's what you had to wait for me out here because Vetinari wouldn't let you smoke indoors is it? Moist thought, Oh and you needed to be smoking a cigar when we met so that you could look cool. How long were you even standing there before I came out?
But even so, Moist believed him. It wasn't Vimes's city in that it belonged to him, oh no, you couldn't own a great, heaving beast like Ankh-Morpork. But it was Vimes's city because he understood that. Every beat in the place was like walking around his home turf.
Moist had met (or, more honestly, avoided) the sort before, but that was small town Watchmen, who'd grown up in the place, made it their business to know everyone and everything that went on. But never a whole city . And certainly not one as sprawling and disgustingly alive as Ankh-bloody-Morpork.
Commander Vimes really was something else.
"I'll keep that in mind, commander."
"Glad to hear it."
“For the next run of stamps maybe we’ll—”
“Don’t you dare.”
Moist smiled pleasantly.
Vimes's cigar had smoked down to the end. He stubbed it out against the palace wall and tucked it into his palm.
"Right. Well then, Mr. Lipwig, with that, it was a real pleasure to finally meet you, but-"
"Bingled-y bongled-y boop!"
A look of abject despair crossed his face.
He coughed, "Right, well, I-"
"Bingled-y bongled-y boop!"
"Shouldn't you get that?" said Moist.
A look flashed across Vimes's face that said please don't make me, but all the same he pulled a small box out of his pocket. He opened it.
"Not right n-"
"Less than two minutes until your meeting with Lord Vetinari, Insert Name Here!" Shouted the tiny imp inside the box, interrupting him.
"Yes, alright, thank you, I'll-"
"You told me to remind you if, and I quote, 'I spend too long talking to that damned idiot postmaster-"
"Yes, thank you, you can stop-"
"-because I don't want to have to leg it up to the bloody Patrician's office one more time this week--"
"Please stop."
"--because I think my lungs might seek gainful employment elsewhere if I do'."
There was a silence while Vimes stared at the imp in the box and Moist stared at Vimes.
"Reminder: Lady Sybil would like more yarn if you have time on your home, thank you Sam, dear, much love!"
Vimes slowly closed the lid of the box.
"Modern technology, eh?" offered Moist.
Vimes looked at Moist with narrowed eyes, as if daring him to laugh. Luckily for both of them, Moist had learned the art of conveniently forgetting what humour was some time ago.
Vimes pocketed the box with more aggression than the cigar case and straightened up.
"Right, well, like I was saying-"
"Meeting with the Patrician?"
"Mmhm."
Moist smiled, winningly.
"A pleasure to finally meet you properly, Commander Vimes," Moist doffed his golden hat with a flourish.
"I'm sure it was," said Vimes, glumly, tipping his helmet without ceremony, "have a pleasant day, Mr. Lipwig."
"And you, Commander Vimes."
And the two men separated. Moist hurrying away from the palace in search of somewhere to bend over double and howl in laughter, Vimes taking the long stairway up to the office two at a time and cursing the whole way.
In his office at the top of those stairs, Lord Vetinari was being handed an efficiently written transcript.
He began to read through it and covered his mouth with his hand. The hand did not move the entire time his eyes travelled down the pages the transcript occupied.
He coughed once near the end and, once he had finished reading, he looked up at the ceiling and breathed deeply.
He cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was strained.
"Commendable work, truly, pass my regards to the clerks involved, Mr. Drumknott."
"Of course, my lord," replied Vetinari's head clerk, "That would be clerks Ambleforth and Clydeson, sir."
"Capital. Good work those men."
Vetinari scanned the transcript again and let out another small breath.
"Ah, and I believe Commander Vimes will have been waiting in the antechamber for, oh," he checked his watch, "approximately eight minutes, now. I would say the additional time should have given his lungs adequate time to recover, wouldn't you, Mr Drumknott? Do let him in."
The End