Men at Arms - Terry Pratchett [25]
The maze was so small that people got lost looking for it.
But the Patrician rather liked the gardens, in a quiet kind of way. He had certain views about the mentality of most of mankind, and the gardens made him feel fully justified.
Piles of paper were stacked on the lawn around the chair. Clerks renewed them or took them away periodically. They were different clerks. All sorts and types of information flowed into the Palace, but there was only one place where it all came together, very much like strands of gossamer coming together in the center of a web.
A great many rulers, good and bad and quite often dead, know what happened; a rare few actually manage, by dint of much effort, to know what’s happening. Lord Vetinari considered both types to lack ambition.
“Yes, Dr. Cruces,” he said, without looking up.
How the hell does he do it? Cruces wondered. I know I didn’t make any noise…
“Ah, Havelock—” he began.
“You have something to tell me, doctor?”
“It’s been…mislaid.”
“Yes. And no doubt you are anxiously seeking it. Very well. Good day.”
The Patrician hadn’t moved his head the whole time. He hadn’t even bothered to ask what It was. He bloody well knows, thought Cruces. How is it you can never tell him anything he doesn’t know?
Lord Vetinari put down a piece of paper on one of the piles, and picked up another.
“You are still here, Dr. Cruces.”
“I can assure you, m’Lord, that—”
“I’m sure you can. I’m sure you can. There is one question that intrigues me, however.”
“M’Lord?”
“Why was it in your Guild House to be stolen? I had been given to understand it had been destroyed. I’m quite sure I gave orders.”
This was the question the Assassin had been hoping would not be asked. But the Patrician was good at that game.
“Er. We—that is, my predecessor—thought it should serve as a warning and an example.”
The Patrician looked up and smiled brightly.
“Capital!” he said. “I have always had a great belief in the effectiveness of examples. So I am sure you’ll be able to sort this out with minimum inconvenience all round.”
“Certainly, m’Lord,” said the Assassin, glumly. “But—”
Noon began.
Noon in Ankh-Morpork took some time, since twelve o’clock was established by consensus. Generally, the first bell to start was that one in the Teachers’ Guild, in response to the universal prayers of its members. Then the water clock on the Temple of Small Gods would trigger the big bronze gong. The black bell in the Temple of Fate struck once, unexpectedly, but by then the silver pedal-driven carillon in the Fools’ Guild would be tinkling, the gongs, bells and chimes of all the Guilds and temples would be in full swing, and it was impossible to tell them apart, except for the tongueless and magical octiron bell of Old Tom in the Unseen University clock tower, whose twelve measured silences temporarily overruled the din.
And finally, several strokes behind all the others, was the bell of the Assassin’s Guild, which was always last.
Beside the Patrician, the ornamental sundial chimed twice and fell over.
“You were saying?” said the Patrician mildly.
“Captain Vimes,” said Dr. Cruces. “He’s taking an interest.”
“Dear me. But it is his job.”
“Really? I must demand that you call him off!”
The words echoed around the, garden. Several pigeons flew away.
“Demand?” said the Patrician, sweetly.
Dr. Cruces backed and filled desperately. “He is a servant after all,” he said. “I see no reason why he should be allowed to involve himself in affairs that don’t concern him.”
“I rather believe he thinks he’s a servant of the law,” said the Patrician.
“He’s a jack-in-office and an insolent upstart!”
“Dear me. I did not appreciate your strength of feeling. But since you demand it, I will bring him to heel without delay.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Do not let me keep you.”
Dr. Cruces wandered off in the direction of the Patrician’s