Night Watch - Terry Pratchett [79]
“You didn’t tell anyone about the basket,” said Sandra. “Or hand us over to the Unmentionables. Are you one of us?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you don’t know who we are!”
“I still doubt it.”
And then he was aware of the doors opening and shutting, and the rustle of a long dress.
“Sergeant Keel? I’ve heard so much about you! Please leave us, Sandra. I’m sure the good sergeant can be trusted with a lady.”
Madam was only a little shorter than Vimes. Could be from Genua, he thought, or spent a lot of time there. Trace of it in the accent. Brown eyes, brown hair—but a woman’s hair could be any color tomorrow—and a purple dress that looked more expensive than most. And an expression that said quite clearly that the owner knew what was going to happen and was going along with things just to make sure—
“Don’t forget the intricately painted fingernails,” she said. “But if you’re trying to guess my weight, don’t expect to get any help from me. You can call me Madam.”
She sat down in a chair opposite him, put her hands together and stared at him over the top of them.
“Who are you working for?” she said.
“I’m an officer of the City Watch,” said Vimes. “Brought here under duress…Madam.”
The woman waved a hand. “You’re free to go whenever you wish.”
“It’s a comfy chair,” said Vimes. He’d be damned if he’d be dismissed. “Are you really from Genua?”
“Are you really from Pseudopolis?” Madam smiled at him. “I find, personally, that it never pays to be from somewhere close at hand. It makes life so much easier. But I have spent a lot of time in Genua, where I have…business interests.” She smiled at him. “And now you’re thinking ‘old seamstress,’ no doubt?”
“Actually, I was thinking ‘bespoke tailoring,’” said Vimes, and she burst out laughing. “But mostly,” he added, “I was thinking ‘revolutionary.’”
“Continue, Sergeant.” Madam stood up. “Do you mind if I have some champagne? I’d offer you some, but I understand that you don’t drink.”
Vimes glanced at the brimming whiskey glass beside him.
“We were just checking,” said Madam, hauling a large bottle out of an industrial-capacity ice bucket.
“You’re not a sergeant. Rosie was right. You’ve been an officer. More than just any old officer, too. You’re so composed, Sergeant Keel. Here you are, in a big house, in a lady’s boudoir, with a woman of uneasy virtue,” Madam upended the bottle into what appeared to be a blue mug with a teddy bear on it, “and you appear unfussed. Where are you from? You may smoke, by the way.”
“Somewhere a long way off,” said Vimes.
“Uberwald?”
“No.”
“I have…business interests in Uberwald,” said Madam. “Alas, the situation there is becoming quite unstable.”
“Right. I see,” said Vimes. “And you’d like to have the significant-pause type of business interests in Ankh-Morpork, I expect. If it can be stabilized.”
“Very good. Let us say that I think this city has a wonderful future and that I would like to be part of it, and that you are remarkably perspicacious.”
“No,” said Vimes. “I’m very simple. I just know how things work. I just follow the money. Winder is a madman, and that’s not good for business. His cronies are criminals, and that’s not good for business. A new Patrician will need new friends, farsighted people who want to be part of a wonderful future. One that’s good for business. That’s how it goes. Meetings in rooms. A little diplomacy, a little give and take, a promise here, an understanding there. That’s how real revolutions happen. All that stuff in the streets is just froth…” Vimes nodded to the doors. “Guests for a late supper? That was Doctor Follett’s voice. A clever man, they used to—they call him. He’ll pick the right side. If you’ve got the big Guilds with you, Winder is a dead man walking. But Snapcase won’t do you much good.”
“Many people have great hopes of him.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s a scheming, self-serving fool. But he’s the best there is, at the moment. And where do you come in, Sergeant?”
“Me? I’m staying outside. You’ve