This story contains mild spoilers for 'The Night Watch' if you
consider the use of a character from that book to be a 'spoiler'.
I don't, but I don't consider kidneys to be a valid pie filling,
either.

To each their own.

Also, I am choosing to believe that a dog cannot be described as
"elderly" in Sourcery when, sixteen years later, he is reputed to
be...well...sixteen. Unless he's been spending even more time up
at the High Energy Magic building than Gaspode. Rum luck.

The Birthday Present
Set just before Sourcery

The dog Wuffles turned over and regarded the priest with one baleful
black eye.
'He's doing very well for a dog of his age,' said Hughnon, in a
desperate attempt to climb a suddenly tilting slope. 'How old would he
be now?'
'Sixteen,' said the Patrician. 'That's over a hundred in dog years.'
- The Truth

'The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.' - Dorothy
Parker (I think; it sounds like something she would say)

Havelock Vetinari, despite being an Assassins school graduate and
having inhumed a fair number of people, found the whole business
rather...distasteful. There were so many things people were good for,
/other/ than target practice, and especially when you didn't actually
need any practice. Even the ones who stirred things up, well, they had
their uses. It all depended on getting them to stir the right things.

But - and this was a reality that had not asserted itself for young
Havelock as soon as it should have done - Guild Politics and City
Politics went hand in hand. You didn't attend the Assassins' Guild to
learn how to assassinate. That was just a side-effect. You attended the
Assassins' Guild to meet the Right People and learn how to behave in
Society.

Once this realization had dawned on him, things became a lot less
difficult for his teachers. Havelock went from being a lazy boy with no
promise to an excellent if rather unimaginative student. If he seemed
to be thinking of other things while doing his lessons...well, there
was no helping some people.

After graduation, he had kept up appearances rather nicely. He went on
the Grand Sneer, touring many foreign countries with his Society
companions in order to see how superior his own city was. He threw
subdued, pleasant parties, and attended the Opera with various women of
his age and social standing. He danced well, it was said. He lived in a
pleasant town-house in Ankh, and never took contracts from the Guild*.
All in all, a likely young man and a credit to the family.

The town-house was tastefully decorated - Madam had seen to that -
and quite empty, most of the time. Havelock never could find help that
would stay longer than a few weeks. He tried to be a good employer, but
he'd trained himself to walk silently. The maids couldn't seem to get
used to his sudden appearance, and quickly developed acute paranoia, or
occasionally facial tics.

Those he fired never could understand how he found out so /quickly/
that they'd been stealing from him.

So it happened that he was quietly cooking his own breakfast, and
thinking about other things entirely, when he realized it was his
thirtieth birthday.

No, not /realized/. He'd /known/ that today was his birthday, of
course. There was a party tonight at his aunt's house, another dull
affair with boring people and mediocre music. He longed for the day
when he'd be done with the things. A man's worth ought to be measured
by more than his ability to smile while drinking cup after cup of
lukewarm punch.

It washed over him, with a surprising suddenness. He was thirty today.
On the one hand, he was well on his way to his intended goal; on the
other, considering the width and breadth of possible human experience,
he had wasted his time most scandalously. Although not, when you came
down to it, as scandalously as most of his acquaintances.

He didn't often think of the Goal he was working so hard for; when he
did, it tended to skitter out of reach. Men who wanted to rule a city
were usually the men who shouldn't. So he made very sure that the
Patricianship wasn't something he wanted, exactly. It was just a
distant sort of thing, that would eventually happen to him, if he took
certain steps. Another two years of steps ought to achieve it, more or
less.

Havelock was a very complicated thinker.

So, Havelock Vetinari, standing in an empty house and cooking for
yourself, thirty years old, is this worth the Goal?

He could be married by now, and a father. His father had been, at his
age. His father had been married, and a father, and /inhumed/, at his
age. Havelock did not intend to be any of those things, especially the
last.

He'd had opportunities. Old Lord Ramkin had offered him a pleasant
country house, a considerable income, and of course the entire estate
when he died, as a dowry for his daughter Sybil. Privately, Lady Sybil
had told him that she didn't fancy being sold as wife-plus-accessories,
and asked him quite politely to decline Lord Ramkin's offer.

It hadn't been difficult. He thought Sybil was a sensible woman, except
for the dragons, and tolerated her far better than he did most of their
circle. But he didn't /want/ a house in the country. He wanted a house
in the center of the city. The house he could see from his balcony. The
Patrician's Palace.

And, with that thought echoing in the empty air, he set about preparing
for the evening's...he sighed. Festivities.

***

What was it Lady Margolotta had said, years ago, in Uberwald?

I zink I understant you now, Avelock. You do not vant a life of ease.
You vant a life of sztruggle, or you fear vot you may accomplish. You
do not vant power. Power iz achieved. You vant /control/, because it
iz a constant challenge.

He'd give anything to be, right this very minute, in Uberwald. Or
Genua. Anywhere but bloody Ankh-Morpork. Control? You could have it!

There were many people in the city, and would be many more, who
strongly believed that Havelock Vetinari was entirely devoid of
emotion. This was not entirely true. Havelock felt a great many
things**. He just didn't see that it was anyone else's business what
they were.

Now, in a filthy mood, he walked along the Ankh-Morpork streets,
avoiding the clattering coaches and night-time carousers as only a
trained Assassin could. He'd left the party at Madam's house as soon
as was polite, considering he was the guest of honor, and dismissed his
carriage. He wanted to walk home, and see if he couldn't rid himself
of the anger he felt.

He wasn't sure why the party had upset him; it was like other parties
he went to constantly, except for the fact that it was his name on the
cake. There had been the lukewarm punch and the little finger food on
sticks, and men who could cram five vowel sounds into a single
syllable. There was dancing and talking and jokes about his age. Sybil
Ramkin, looking up from her little knot of laughing women, had winked
at him.

Perhaps it was the wink. Sybil had meant well, but it was the wink of
one captive animal to another. We'll get our own, it'd said, and when
we do, thank the gods this'll be a bad memory. When you're Patrician,
you can have done with silly parties, and you'll have the fools in
your hand, instead of the other way round.

It had a lot to say, for a wink.

But when? When was he going to get his crack at the city? Not at
organising it - that was for dreamers, /organising/ Ankh-Morpork. He
simply wanted to chain its natural malevolence and use it. Teach these
stupid little people that one small slice of pie, on a regular basis,
was better than a whole pie with a dagger in.

Havelock would have been surprised and dismayed - and wouldn't have
believed it, if told - but what drove him was a love of Ankh-Morpork,
and a desire to make it strong. These seamstresses on the street, they
ought to have a guild, because he loved the city and wanted its
inhabitants to be - well, not safe, not happy, but at least
/satisfied/. A thieves' guild could cut the actual crime in the city by
half. A guild of merchants could drag Ankh-Morpork back into position
as a major trading power.

Dwarves would increase the skill level of city artisans. Even trolls
could supply a vast workforce for the bits of the city - like the
slaughterhouses and construction shops - that required heavy-lifting.
Guilds and open trade!

"Here, Quirke, don't be an ass. Come on - "

Vetinari slid quietly into an alley as the voice broke in on his
thoughts. Two Watchmen, in battered and grimy breastplates, were moving
down the street, one chasing the other, who was built like a siege
engine.

"It's just a /dog/, Quirke."

"It bit me!"

"It gnawed your shoe. The thing's a stray, it's starving!"

"I hates dogs," said the one called Quirke. "Nasty mangy cur. Out of my
way, Vimesy."

There was the sound of a thump, and a laugh.

"Got to be quicker than that, Vimes. Now move."

Havelock peered around the corner.

The thick one was standing in the middle of the street, a ball of
brownish fur tucked under one arm, hand clamped around what Havelock
recognized, vaguely, as a dog's nose. A taller, scrawnier one stood in
front of him, rubbing his right fist. Every time the one called Quirke
moved, the one called Vimes did too, blocking him.

"You can't throw a dog in a river in cold blood," Vimes said. "That's
just...it's just stupid, Quirke!"

"Oh? Is there a law against it? I don't think so. I think if there
were, there'd be a lot more of the useless vermin in the city. And if
you don't move, Vimes, I'll knock you on your skinny, righteous arse.
And /then/ I'll break you to constable."

"Ha, like you got broke back to Night Watch? You won't dare. I'm a
corporal now too."

"I've got senority, and I say it drowns."

Havelock watched in dry horror. This...this person was going to throw a
dog in the Ankh. He wouldn't even do that to a rat. And it wasn't more
than a puppy.

Havelock Vetinari had inhumed grown men before, but he balked at
killing dogs. Men could fight back, after all. Dogs could too, he
supposed, but usually wouldn't, which was mankind's fault for
domesticating them. The animal whimpered.

"You're just the kind of man who'd knock a Watchman down to kill a
puppy," Vimes snarled, echoing Havelock's thoughts.

He stepped out of the alleyway. Both men jumped.

"Good evening, officers," he said, with a thin smile. The men took in
his dress, and touched their helmets respectfully.

"Evenin', gov'nor," Quirke said.

"I wonder if you might be of some assistance. I seem to have..." he
gave them a convincingly foolish smile, "Lost my way. Could you tell
me, what street is this?"

They looked at each other. "Er...this is Short Street," said the tall
one, curiously. "Morpork side," he added, just in case Havelock had
never been across the bridge from Ankh.

"I see. Thank you. That's a fine pup you have there, officer..."

"...Quirke," said the man, pinned by an icy gaze.

"Yes. Quite." Havelock took the small bundle of fur from Quirke's
unresisting hands, holding it up with the air of an expert. "A purebred
Ankhian Terrier, it appears," said Havelock, against all evidence. "See
the teeth?" he pushed the pup's lips up, showing convincingly sharp
teeth. He showed his own, just in case Quirke had any idea about taking
the dog back. Vimes' adams apple bobbed nervously.

"How much for a creature such as this?" Havelock asked. "I should like
to own a good...hunting dog. If you can suffer to part from him, that
is."

Quirke was on more familiar ground now. "Ah, well, such a fine dog,
sir, dear to me heart, and to a gennl'man like yourself - "

"I shall give you two dollars," Havelock said sharply.

"Course, guv. Just a pup." Quirke tried to look casual. Havelock tucked
the animal under one arm, where it curled tightly against his side. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out two Ankh-Morpork dollar coins.

There was a pause, fraught with tension. Havelock held the coins out to
Vimes.

"Here you are...Corporal," he said. "My thanks."

Quirke reached out for the coins, and drew back, whimpering. Havelock
had barely moved, but Quirke's fingers were already turning purple.

Vimes, eyeing Havelock warily, took the dollars from his hand. He
tipped his helmet with the most knowing look Havelock had seen in some
time.

"Again, officers, I am in your debt," Havelock continued, as he let
himself fade into the streets. Under his arm, the dog squirmed and
licked his hand.

Behind him, he heard the tall Watchman laughing as his boots pounded
away.

***

"I say, Havelock, what is that?"

Madam Meserole, seated at Havelock's dining table, pointed to what
looked like a pile of shaggy carpet sniffing its way along the floor.
Her nephew shrugged.

"It's a dog," he said.

"It looks like a dog /toy/," said Madam. "One that's been chewed."

Madam was a cat person, one of her few personality flaws.

"I bought him last night. He slept on my bed," Havelock added. "They're
surprisingly warm."

"You didn't! It probably has mange, and fleas - "

"I washed him. He's very healthy."

Madam Meserole looked at him, amazed. "Oh. Then...it's probably all
right, I suppose. Only don't let it too near my kitties."

"I promise, aunt."

"What's that on its neck?"

Havelock looked at the oval of metal, hanging off a knotted leather
strap. "It's...er, it's a Tells-People-Who-A-Dog-Belongs-To tag," he
said. "In case he gets lost. Leonard invented them. I stopped at his
place and had him engrave it for me."

" 'My Master Is Havelock Vetinari'. How nice. Did you know a human year
is like seven dog years?"

"Did you know a dwarf can live to be five hundred years old? Human
years, of course."

"You and your...ethnological interests. What do you call it?"

"Call what?"

"The dog," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"He's a dog," said Havelock, brows drawing together.

"I mean, what are you going to name it. When you get a dog, you name
it."

"But surely he knows who he is."

Madam Meserole gave him a frown. "Are you making fun of your aunt,
Havelock?"

Havelock bent and picked up the pup. It snuffled his hand, begging
pathetically.

"I hadn't thought about naming him," he murmured. Then, in an effort to
stop her from calling the dog 'it' again, he said, "You may name him,
aunt."

"Oh, well." She squinted at him. "It looks rather like...I know. Before
you were born, your mother had a dog. Wuffles, she called it."

He stared. "You want me to call my dog Wuffles?" he asked. At the sound
of the word, the dog leapt up on him, shedding all over his waistcoat.
"Is it even a word?"

"Well, it's not as though you can give it a human name. I detest people
who give their pets names like Adam or Maxwell. It shows a disrespect
for the human condition."

Havelock, having been woken that morning by a wagging tail in his ear,
rather thought that you could keep the human condition. But, looking in
the creature's eyes as he drooled on his hand and begged for breakfast
scraps, he knew that, no matter how hard he tried, the dog would never
answer to anything but Wuffles.

He sighed. It wasn't a perfect world. It wasn't even a perfect city.
But a house seems a lot less empty with a dog in it.

And, he thought, there are a lot more stray dogs out there***.

"I think it is time," Havelock Vetinari said, holding the dog on his
lap and looking out the window at the Patrician's Palace, "To step up
certain plans."

"Oh?" Madam Meserole smiled.

"Yes. I think I intend to be Patrician by week's end."

He could get a basket and put it under his desk. Wuffles...oh dear,
/Wuffles/...would like someplace to sleep during the day.

END

* Only gentlemen took contracts, but Gentlemen didn't have to.

** Ambition, certainly. And if sarcasm was an emotion, he had a full
supply of that.

*** While the Patrician is considered to be a very literal man in most
respects, it is this sort of metaphorical turn of phrase that has led
to him describing Ankh-Morpork as a clock and discussing clacks
messaging in terms of shellfish, leading to some curious looks from the
Archchancellor of Unseen University and the Commander of the City
Watch****.

**** Who spent the two dollars on a hot meal from CMOT Dibbler's
sausage cart, and lived to regret it. But only just.