“Snapcase has promised you ladies that you'll be allowed to form a Guild, right?” said Vimes. It was another cheating move, but he was fed up with waking up in odd places. “Yes, I thought so. And you believe him? It's not going to happen. When he's the Patrician he'll look right through you.”
He'll end up looking through everything, he added to himself. Mad Lord Snapcase. Just another Winder, but with fancier waistcoats and more chins. Same cronyism, same piggy ways, same stupid arrogance, one more leech in a line of leeches that'd make Vetinari seem like a breath of clean air. Ha…Vetinari. Yes, he'd be around here somewhere too, no doubt, learning that little expression he had which never, ever gave you a clue what he was thinking…But he'll be the one to give you the Guild you want so much. He's here somewhere. I know it.
“Don't expect anything from Snapcase,” he said aloud. “Remember, there were people who thought Winder was the future, too.”
He derived some minor pleasure from seeing the look on Rosie Palm's face. At last she said: “Give him a drink, Sandra. If he moves, shoot an eye out. I'll let Madam know.”
“Do you expect me to believe that she'll fire that?” said Vimes.
“Sandra has a very useful streak of belligerence,” said Rosie. “A gentleman was being…impolite yesterday and she came running in and…you'll be surprised at what she did with her mushroom.”
Vimes eyed the crossbow. The girl had a very steady hand. “I don't think I quite under—” he began.
“It's a wooden thing to make it easier to darn socks,” said Sandra. “I hit him behind the ear with it.”
Vimes gave her a blank look for a while and then said: “Fine. Fine. I'm sitting very still, believe me.”
“Good,” said Rosie.
She swept out and it was a real sweep, the dress brushing the ground. There were big, expensive double doors. When she opened them, the noise of a meeting filled the room. There was conversation, the smell of cigar smoke and alcohol, and a voice said “—to change the dominant episteme—” before the doors breathed shut.
Vimes stayed seated. He was getting attached to the chair and on current showing someone was likely to hit him again soon.
Sandra, still holding the bow, placed a very large glass of whiskey beside him.
“You know,” he said, “in times to come people will wonder how all those weapons got smuggled around the city.”
“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.”
“And it's because the lads in the Watch never bother about the seamstresses, curfew or no curfew,” said Vimes, staring at the whiskey. “Or posh coaches,” he added. “A watchman can get into real trouble if he tries that.” He could smell the stuff from here. It was the good stuff from the mountains, not the local rubbish.
“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 colour 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 was 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 pays never 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.
