I IS A-WRITING
It was noon, when most young Assassins were outside, mocking their neighbors' choice of trousers. Havelock Vetinari, twelve years old, nearly alone in the dormitory, and currently lord of all he surveyed(1), considered the newcomer with interest.
“How long do you think it will take him to figure out that there are not many improvements to be made on your average dagger?” Ahmed said idly. He was lying on the bunk across from Havelock, and his face was buried in his pillow, but then he had good ears and doubtless he had gathered the gist of what the boy who had been hastily inducted two days ago was trying to do with Guild weaponry. The clinking sounds were a tipoff, along with the occasional “Oh dear.”
“Depends,” Havelock said. “I’m not sure he’s actually trying to improve the dagger, per se. I mean, even Downey would have figured out by now that as long as you’ve a sharp edge -“
“- and a handle,” Ahmed murmured. “Not one of your better plans, that.”
“Would have worked perfectly well if Downey’d only had to the decency to hold still while I was disarming him,” Havelock said, briefly distracted.
“I think you’ll find that that goes for most failed assassination attempts in history, Vetinari.”
“What I was trying to say,” Havelock said, with dignity, “is that I believe he’s using the knife for something else entirely. He’s inventing something.”
“Like what? Something to hold Downey still for you?”ldquo;Be silent, mortal.”
“You need to stop reading religious texts in your spare time. It can’t be healthy.”
“You’ve never read a really fiery religious text.”
“Excuse me? Klatch is the mother of all fiery religious texts,” Ahmed protested.
“And your point is…? Just because you live there doesn’t mean you appreciate it.”
“Heretic!”
“Illiterate.”
“Sausage eater.”
“Not since winter break,” Havelock said, mournfully. “It’s almost enough to make me buy one of Dibbler’s. Porridge in Grune! I ask you.”
Ahmed snorted and started to say something almost certainly ungracious about the merits of the Guild’s menu when the boy, who was still tinkering away, cried “Aha!"
Havelock jumped back, and Ahmed almost rolled off the edge of his bunk. When they had both recovered themselves enough to glance down - albeit, in Ahmed's case, whilst dangling from a convenient sheet - they stared.
The kid - Leonard, that was his name, Havelock remembered abruptly (sharp objects can do that) - was holding up a cup, with a steel pole driven through the center, girdled by three knives, which were whirling at high speed. He had an embarrassingly innocent expression of triumph on his vaguely cherubic face.
"Er," said Havelock, with considerable eloquence.
"Ah," Ahmed tried.
"What the hell is that?" they chorused.
Leonard looked modest, and began, "I call it the..."
It'll be a fearsome torture machine, Havelock thought, wisely.
An implement of mass destruction, Ahmed decided.
"...Makes Drinks By Cutting Fruits Into Tiny Bits machine!"
(1) Downey was out buying a razor(2).
(2) At the time, Vetinari believed there to be nothing on the Disc so disturbing as a twelve year old in need of a shave. He was quickly disillusioned, though.
Also, a prompt from all_unwritten: Silence is not golden.
And then there is this.
Cigarette smoke hot on your ear and cheek, your sister's hands on your broad shoulders. The memories are still there: you can feel them in the hollow of your left hipbone, where a bruise is turning yellow, and in your mouth, which is dry and empty. (Did someone cut off your tongue?) And perhaps, if you stuck two fingers between your sore teeth and whistled, they would bleed up through your hard palate into your eyes. Perhaps if you pressed your palm against the flat of your leg, you would catch them there.
But until then they are gone and you don't miss them. It suits you to be the tail end of a sentence, without context or explanation, and only the shadows to guide whoever is reading you, in this instant, back to the beginning. A story curled in on itself like the thread strung through a nautilus by an ant who lost the scent of honey halfway through.
(Metaphors, yes, because there are no words left for the disconnect between what you were and what you are.)
Your sister kisses the back of your neck and says nothing. She believes in solidarity and clinical amnesia. You try, and fail, to recall her name.
SATISFYING CONCLUSIONS ARE OVERRATED.
“How long do you think it will take him to figure out that there are not many improvements to be made on your average dagger?” Ahmed said idly. He was lying on the bunk across from Havelock, and his face was buried in his pillow, but then he had good ears and doubtless he had gathered the gist of what the boy who had been hastily inducted two days ago was trying to do with Guild weaponry. The clinking sounds were a tipoff, along with the occasional “Oh dear.”
“Depends,” Havelock said. “I’m not sure he’s actually trying to improve the dagger, per se. I mean, even Downey would have figured out by now that as long as you’ve a sharp edge -“
“- and a handle,” Ahmed murmured. “Not one of your better plans, that.”
“Would have worked perfectly well if Downey’d only had to the decency to hold still while I was disarming him,” Havelock said, briefly distracted.
“I think you’ll find that that goes for most failed assassination attempts in history, Vetinari.”
“What I was trying to say,” Havelock said, with dignity, “is that I believe he’s using the knife for something else entirely. He’s inventing something.”
“Like what? Something to hold Downey still for you?”ldquo;Be silent, mortal.”
“You need to stop reading religious texts in your spare time. It can’t be healthy.”
“You’ve never read a really fiery religious text.”
“Excuse me? Klatch is the mother of all fiery religious texts,” Ahmed protested.
“And your point is…? Just because you live there doesn’t mean you appreciate it.”
“Heretic!”
“Illiterate.”
“Sausage eater.”
“Not since winter break,” Havelock said, mournfully. “It’s almost enough to make me buy one of Dibbler’s. Porridge in Grune! I ask you.”
Ahmed snorted and started to say something almost certainly ungracious about the merits of the Guild’s menu when the boy, who was still tinkering away, cried “Aha!"
Havelock jumped back, and Ahmed almost rolled off the edge of his bunk. When they had both recovered themselves enough to glance down - albeit, in Ahmed's case, whilst dangling from a convenient sheet - they stared.
The kid - Leonard, that was his name, Havelock remembered abruptly (sharp objects can do that) - was holding up a cup, with a steel pole driven through the center, girdled by three knives, which were whirling at high speed. He had an embarrassingly innocent expression of triumph on his vaguely cherubic face.
"Er," said Havelock, with considerable eloquence.
"Ah," Ahmed tried.
"What the hell is that?" they chorused.
Leonard looked modest, and began, "I call it the..."
It'll be a fearsome torture machine, Havelock thought, wisely.
An implement of mass destruction, Ahmed decided.
"...Makes Drinks By Cutting Fruits Into Tiny Bits machine!"
(1) Downey was out buying a razor(2).
(2) At the time, Vetinari believed there to be nothing on the Disc so disturbing as a twelve year old in need of a shave. He was quickly disillusioned, though.
Also, a prompt from all_unwritten: Silence is not golden.
And then there is this.
Cigarette smoke hot on your ear and cheek, your sister's hands on your broad shoulders. The memories are still there: you can feel them in the hollow of your left hipbone, where a bruise is turning yellow, and in your mouth, which is dry and empty. (Did someone cut off your tongue?) And perhaps, if you stuck two fingers between your sore teeth and whistled, they would bleed up through your hard palate into your eyes. Perhaps if you pressed your palm against the flat of your leg, you would catch them there.
But until then they are gone and you don't miss them. It suits you to be the tail end of a sentence, without context or explanation, and only the shadows to guide whoever is reading you, in this instant, back to the beginning. A story curled in on itself like the thread strung through a nautilus by an ant who lost the scent of honey halfway through.
(Metaphors, yes, because there are no words left for the disconnect between what you were and what you are.)
Your sister kisses the back of your neck and says nothing. She believes in solidarity and clinical amnesia. You try, and fail, to recall her name.
SATISFYING CONCLUSIONS ARE OVERRATED.