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The Postmaster General of Ankh-Morpork was roused by a hellish racket[1] in the small hours of Hogswatch Night. For a moment, in the afterglow of a hearty meal and inadvisable quantities of eggnog, he glanced out of the window half-expecting to see a sleigh and four boars on the next-door privy roof.
Instead, there was a black coach on the driveway.
Moist von Lipwig, a man infinitely opposed to getting up in the morning and doubly opposed to getting up in the night, had, nevertheless, a healthy attachment to his life. This was why he was engaged in a sort of frantic tap-dance down the stairs within the minute.
The lights were off in the lobby. From the fig leaf of the winged statue dangled a single, tattered streamer. The last slice of cake, which is, invariably, a mangled heap of crumbs and icing, lay forlorn on its side atop the counter. The aftermath of a revelry…
But what business did Vetinari have with him on Hogswatch Night? His mind probed desperately for an accusation. One too many stolen pencils? No, no. That couldn't be.
He stopped, and peered suspiciously at the black coach through the window. The coachman did not smile and wave at him. In fact, there was a distinct lack of anything coachman-shaped at all.
The whole bally situation reminded him of old Überwaldian horror stories. Specifically ones about dubiously human Counts, missing children and gore. Oh, the gore. There were illustrations. If he were to barricade the front door right now and hide he might still have-
“Ah, Mr. Lipwig.”
His Lordship emerged from the Blind Letter Office. There was something cold and sticky in Moist’s left hand. He had rammed it into the cake plate in his haste to vault over the counter for cover.
“I have an appointment with you, I take it, Sir?” Moist said, instead, wiping his hand on the wall. There will be Words with Ms. Maccalariat tomorrow, if there was enough of him left to have Words with.
“Quite the contrary … Sir.”
Moist looked on, slack-jawed, as Vetinari produced an accordion binder from the folds of his robes. “… It is I who has an appointment with you.”
Moist tried to make sense of the logic in that sentence in a last-ditch attempt to purge the memory of being called a Sir from his head. Lord Vetinari has assumed a patient expression, which only meant he was out of time.
“I beg your pardon, Sir?” he chanced.
"Do take your time, Sir,” returned His Lordship with full force, handing him the binder, “I will be waiting outside while you prepare.”
Automatically, his legs carried him into the Blind Mail Office. He peered into the binder with no small sense of apprehension. It had little strips of coloured paper sticking out of it.
He began to read.
Curriculum Vitae
Havelock Vetinari, DMAP, DM, DGS, MA, MPE, MASc, MIDD, BScI, DiPE
Provost of Assassins
Patrician of Ankh-Morpork
Oblong Office, Patrician’s Palace
11 Turnwise Broad Way,
Ankh-Morpork
---
Personal Information
Date of Birth…
Moist stopped reading. There are things nobody should know, and this folder seems full of them. All seventy-five pages of it, he reflected as he risked a peep at the second page. There was a table of contents.
“Sir?” Moist poked his head out of the door.
“Yes, Mr. Lipwig?”
“What is this?”
Lord Vetinari was the picture of innocence. “My Curriculum Vitae, Sir.”
“What for?” cried Moist.
“A post in the Blind Letter Office, Sir.”
“Very well, um, Sir.” Mumbled Moist, retracting like a turtle into the safety of the office.
Five minutes ago, all he had to fear were the gallows. Now it sounded like a go on the playground swings, in comparison to – dear gods – hiring your own b-
Hmm.
Moist allowed himself thirty seconds to panic, then turned on his brightest grin and held the door open.
“Impressive! Simply impressive, your lordship! If you will just step inside-“ Vetinari wants a show, doesn’t he? Then a show he’ll get.
Barely a minute later the Postmaster General was engaged in a staring match with one Havelock Vetinari, DMAP, DM, DGS, etc., his only defence a sheet of blank paper on a clipboard. But it wouldn’t do to be intimidated; one must keep up the appearances.
“But please, tell me a little bit about yourself,” started Moist, and immediately regretted it. The question shrivelled his tongue. No amount of brushing will remove the flavour.
“Well, Mr. Lipwig, I am proud to have been involved in blind letter sorting in the Ankh-Morpork Post Office, pro bono publico, since – khm – the foundation of the office itself. Why, I find you exceedingly familiar. I believe we have met before?”
“Yes, definitely, Sir,” Moist looked up from his clipboard, where he had been pretending to take notes[2] in an attempt to miss as much of the speech as possible. He will have to get this over with, and quick, while his sanity was still intact. “why ever did you choose to apply for this position?” he asked, half-distressed.
“This is my reasoning: Since I work here every other day, you might as well hire me. Frank and Dave could use the help.”
“What about pro bono publico?”
“How altruistic, Mr. Lipwig! Think of that as a free trial.”
That went nowhere at all. Apparently, Havelock Vetinari[3] had no sense of shame. Time to get to the point. “And I would love to – don’t get me wrong, but I can’t, you see, in good conscience, that is, erm, we’ve rejected your application, on grounds of you being my employer.”
“Would that be inconvenient?” The same look of innocent bewilderment.
“I don’t know, there has to be a law against it somewhere!” Moist hadn’t planned that far. He couldn’t believe he had to explain the concept to begin with. To be honest, he had been avoiding the thought in general. This way madness lies.
Dread filled him as one of Vetinari’s eyebrows began to rise. “I assure you, Mr. Lipwig, there is no such law."
Well, there should be! went unsaid. If only Moist was more like Lord Rust this would have warranted a spit-flecked Preposterous!, an audit and possibly a coup.
But Moist von Lipwig was Moist von Lipwig, which is to say, he knows an impending noose when he sees one. The only way was backwards.
“Are you ordering me to hire you, Sir?” he asked weakly.
“Heaven forbid, of course not.”
“Then-“
“I’m only suggesting you do so,” Another lightning-quick smile, “Sir.”
That settled it. A niggling horror settled in the back of Moist’s head; he shall have to make do with being called Sir daily by the most powerful man in the city, for the rest of his natural life. He ignored it; if you hung too long on the little details you might burst into tears on the spot.
“How does this work, anyway?” Moist prodded miserably at the folder, “You pay my wages-“
“Taxpayer expenses,” said Vetinari with a wave of his hand.
“And I pay your wages with-“
“Taxpayer expenses,” repeated Vetinari.
“This isn’t some elaborately planned budget cut, is it?”
Vetinari looked thoughtful.
“… forget I said anything.” Good job, this. Now he’d gone and given him Ideas.
“If you say so, Mr. Lipwig. Am I to understand that I am engaged?”
“If I say no…”
“I shall walk out of this door and you shall never hear from me again.”
It was a tempting prospect, until one dwelled a little on the implications. Dammit! The Post Office wouldn’t last a week. Moist wouldn’t last a day. It was different, back then, when he could pack his bags and skip town with fifteen minutes’ notice. You couldn’t do that, could you now, with a promising career, an almost-gold chain, and a fiancée.
The niggling sense of horror grew. Now he had things to lose, it took a lot less than a noose and a spike pit to kill him. Indeed, Vetinari could very well kill him by not doing anything at all. Moist drooped with resignation. He will just have to get used to the Sir.
“Well, then,” he swallowed, “Congratulations! You’re engaged! … Sir.”
“Capital!” Vetinari rose and offered Moist his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lipwig.”
They shook it once, twice, and Moist breathed a sigh of relief as his Lordship turned towards the door. Tomorrow’s problems will have to wait. Sleeping off his headache takes first priority.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Lipwig,” Vetinari reappeared through the doorway. “Will there be a hat?”
“I could arrange for one, your Lordship. Goodnight-!”
No sense in walking all the way back upstairs, either. He draped himself over the arm of his chair and closed his eyes…
For the second time that night, Moist was roused by a horrible racket. This time there were footsteps and voices.
He peered out of the window to see a crowd of considerably rattled Dark Clerks, and one or two exceptionally red-faced wizards. The carriage has disappeared. Drumknott looked up at him.
Where is he, he was mouthing.
Moist shrugged, sank back into his chair, and went straight back to sleep.
oOo
The Patricianship was a life tenure; this generally meant that every hour of every day of every year of the current Patrician’s life is dedicated to Morporkia and Morporkia alone.
Hogswatch night was different. When they said a year and a day, or a hundred years and a day, or an eternity and a day, this was the day. The clock strikes midnight; the tentative hour begins, neither in this year nor the next.
On this day, in this hour, the Patrician is freed from his obligation, and may do whatever he pleases.
A discerning passerby would not spot a pitch-black carriage parked by Pseudopolis Yard; it had been expertly positioned in a little cranny, under the office window of the Commander of the City Watch, drowning in paperwork late at night. Sooner or later he will look up, and he will recognize the black crest on the black coach, and he will cuss and make his way downstairs, and he will be handed a seventy-six-page thick binder.
The current patrician of Ankh-Morpork was scribbling something on a sheet of paper against a wall.
If one were to lean in closer, it would read…
Curriculum Vitae
Havelock Vetinari, DMAP, DM, DGS, MA, MPE, MASc, MIDD, BScI, DiPE
Provost of Assassins
Patrician of Ankh-Morpork
Junior Clerk of the Ankh-Morpork Post Office, Blind Mail Office…
[1] Excluding, of course, normal levels of background ambience on Hogswatch Night in Ankh-Morpork, i.e. carousing, screaming, brawling, explosions, carolling from several well-meaning if confused religious authorities, the odd wizard, and virgin sacrifices.
[2] Sketches of Adora Belle’s adorable nose.
[3] DMAP, DM, DGS, MA, MPE, MASc, MIDD, BScI, DiPE.