Good evenink, children of zer night. It iz I, zer Baron of Bad Taste,
zer howlink volf of vordplay, zer --

:cough: Hallo, gentle readers. Just getting into the spirit of
things. Come with me now, on a voyage to Uberwald, dark, mysterious,
enigmatic, damp. Yes, that's right, I'm being dramatic because I'm
terrified of writing this fanfic. I've wanted to since I first read The
Fifth Elephant, but for some reason, never managed to get up the nerve.
Now I have, and I find it veirdly allurink. Besides, it's about time
I posted something that wasn't Vimes-centric.

One small, one so-tiny Night Watch spoiler, really not a spoiler at all
so much as a hint, an intimation...if you haven't read Night Watch, you
won't even know you've been spoiled, it's so small.

And a special thanks to Mary for beta-ing; she also gets credit for the
second footnote, which very nearly made me choke with laughter.

Enjoy.

A Room Vith A View
ch. 1

"Hmm? Oh, she was a very...unusual lady but, alas, rather /older/
than me," said Vetinari. "Much older, I have to say. But it was a
long time ago. Life teaches us its small lessons and we move on."
-- The Fifth Elephant

It is very hard to surprise an Igor.

One reason for this is that, while any individual Igor might be old or
young, the parts he is made of might be antique, or so new that the
shine has barely worn off. Some organs, handed down through the years,
could be quite old. Even if you hadn't seen everything, your eyes had.

Another is that, generally, they take jobs with certain expectations.
Igors are great fans of The Way Things Are Done. After all, it worked,
didn't it? An Igor almost always survived the waving pitchforks or
sudden shaft of sunlight. And in Uberwald -- at least, /this/
Uberwald -- their employers stuck to certain conventions. 'Zer Castle'
(crash of lightning) was always well marked, and as Otto Chriek liked
to say, not all of zem scream.

Otto had, in fact, just left zer castle. He'd been up to lend a book,
and had stayed for -- ahem -- dinner, but then it began to rain really
rather hard, and Otto did so like a good gothic carriage ride in the
rain.

Igor, whose cousin Igor was employed by Otto, thought that the vampire
had probably left something behind, when the deep, resonant iron
door-knocker was thumped hard on the old oak door. When he opened it,
his hearts nearly failed.

"Stay right where you are. Our carriage is broken down but I'm not
having any of this children-of-the-night rubbish, and I'm quite well
armed," said a tall, youngish man, sharply. He was drenched, black hair
plastered to his scalp, coat hanging off of bony shoulders. One hand
was extended in a warning gesture.

Igor, recovering from the initial shock, blinked owlishly.

"All I need is a spanner," the man continued. "If you do not have a
spanner, a sledgehammer will be sufficient."

"Thall I thee if Mithtreth ith in?" Igor asked hopefully. This was not
according to the script.

"Does Mistress have a spanner?" the young man asked.

"We have roomth for the night, if you are tired travelerth in thearch
of thuccor," Igor continued.

"None of that now!" the man said sharply. "I know all about Uberwaldean
hospitality. I don't want any trouble. I merely want some tools to
repair the carriage with."

"It'th raining out. Do come inthide."

"No."

They stared at each other for a moment. Then there was an impatient
noise from behind the young man.

"It's pissing down, Havelock. Can't hurt to go in. Just for a few
minutes," a whining, nasal voice said. A second young man emerged from
the damp gloom. "Charles Selachii," he said, holding out his hand
before he'd fully seen who he was speaking to. Igor regarded it
professionally.

"Oh yeth. Quite nithe fingerth," he said. "Good writht boneth, too."

"Gods give me /strength," the dark-haired young man -- apparently
called Havelock -- murmured. "Have you learned nothing about Uberwald,
Selachii?"

"I know this is a nice warm castle and you're being a stubborn fool,"
Selachii replied. Havelock favored him with an icy scowl. Igor could
now see a huddle of people behind the two men; four more, at least.
Havelock turned back to Igor.

"Look, do you have the spanner or don't you?" he asked.

"I don't think we do, thur. Perhapth the gardener doeth, but he'th -- "

"Away for the week-end? How convenient. Fine, fine. Go on ahead,
Charles. The rest of you too," Havelock said with a sigh. "I'll
straighten things out."

"I don't see who died and made you Patrician," Selachii said. "I'm the
eldest."

"And I am the one who did /not/ burst into tears because we were
stranded in the middle of nowhere with a broken cart-wheel," Havelock
replied calmly. "Do watch your step, Alice."

This to a horse-faced young woman who gaped, touched her breast
theatrically, and nearly fainted when she saw Igor.

"What is it?" one of the others asked.

"Igor, madam," Igor replied calmly. "I'll fetch the mithtreth. Thith
way, gentlemen, ladieth."

What a crew, Havelock thought to himself, as the others shed their
coats and began to spread out around the tastefully decorated drawing
room. Well, not really 'spread out'; more like 'hunch up'. The women
settled themselves on the couch in front of the fireplace, where a
small flame crackled merrily; the men took up nonchalant posts on
either side of it, leaning on the mantle, trying to pretend they
weren't just as desperate for the warmth.

Havelock preferred to stay by the bookcase, across the room. He had
seen copper piping running up the outside of the castle as they trooped
up to it, and assumed, correctly, that this meant that the rooms were
heated centrally by thermal springs underneath it. He had found the
warm draft, and stood in it, drying quickly.

Of all the people Aunt Roberta could have picked for him to travel
with, he wondered why she'd picked these five. Charles Selachii was
supposed to be the chaperone on their Grand Sneer, but he was causing
more trouble than he was worth, since he tended to assume that Foreign
equals Stupid and liked to steal the towels from their lodgings.
Havelock knew that there was no bigger petty criminal than a rich young
man, but this was taking things a bit far.

Cyril de Worde was an arrogant, speciesist bastard who was taking the
'sneer' part of their tour a bit too seriously. Alice Venturi and
Sara Selachii were on opposite sides of an inter-family feud, and
therefore took every opportunity to be coldly polite to each other.
Sybil Ramkin wasn't too bad, as people went, but Havelock couldn't look
at her without being reminded of the moment when old Lord Ramkin pulled
him aside and offered to murder him painfully if any harm came to his
little girl. Harm, according to Ramkin, included the attentions of That
Bastard Selachii or de Worde The Weasel. Apparently, Havelock was the
least of the three evils.

It couldn't be more than a mile to Bonk, where they were supposed to
lodge for the night with Serafine von Uberwald and her new husband, the
Baron. The girls had been at school with Serafine, and apparently Cyril
had courted her until he found out she was a werewolf. Havelock could
not /wait/ for the experience of dinner with the Baron.

If they ever got out of this castle.

He took down one of the books and opened it, searching for information.
Near the fire, the others made quiet conversation. He saw that
dependable, sensible Sybil had hung her coat by the fire, instead of
tossing it on the coat-rack like the others.

He didn't move when Igor suddenly stood at his elbow; it was more
difficult than one might think. Igors prided themselves on their
ability to appear suddenly from nowhere.

"Tea, thurs and madamth?" Igor asked, passing him and setting a tray
down near the others. "I can provide bithcuitth. There ith brandy, if
you prefer, or Uberwaldian vodka."

"What's in that, then?" Selachii asked.

"Grains," Igor replied. "Mothtly."

"I could go a spot of brandy," Selachii said thoughtfully, pouring from
the decanter on Igor's tray once he'd served the women with tea. "Cyril?
Havelock?"

"None for me, thank you," Havelock answered. He put the book away, and
joined the others around the fire.

Cyril was looking in fascinated disgust at Igor. At least he had better
sense than to speak; Charles would have asked 'what are you?', as his
sister Sara had, but Cyril merely stared. 'Le mot juste' was the de
Worde motto; 'the right word in the right place' was how Cyril translated
it, choosing circumspection over inquiry.

Havelock, who had done rather better in languages than Cyril, thought
it ironic that the real translation referred to fairness in no small
way.

"Mithtreth will be down thortly," Igor said. When he pronounced
'Mithtreth', there was a flash of lightning through the windows. High,
small windows, Havelock noticed, with heavy curtains, easily drawn.

"I say, these biscuits are rather good," Alice announced. "Do try one,
Havelock."

He gave her a withering stare. Alice was looking for a potential
husband, and she'd apparently settled on him until something better
came along. It was a good stare, one he'd practiced on several Ankh-
Morpork street cats. He was only really getting into it when there was
a discreet cough from the direction of the hallway.

The Mistress of the castle was still many years from beetotalism, and
the grandmotherly getup which it inspired. Now she stood, tall and pale
and beautiful, in the doorway. She had long dark hair, braided elegantly,
and her dress was...well, calling it 'revealing' would have cheapened
the experience, but Cyril could have told you that 'respectable' was
definitely not the mot juste. It was the way the deep black fabric clung
to her hips. And other parts.

"Good evening," she said, inclining her head regally as the women rose
to curtsey, and the men bowed. Her Morporkian was excellent. "I
apologise I could not greet you sooner. I am -- "

"Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald,"
Havelock said. "In the short form. I believe."

The Mistress -- as well as the rest of the castaways -- regarded him
curiously.

"I prefer simply 'Lady Margolotta'," she said. "So much more elegant.
And you are...?"

"Havelock Vetinari."

"Vot an unusual name."

Havelock raised an eyebrow. "It's ancestral."

"No doubt. Vill you introduce me then, Havelock Vetinari, to your
travelink companions?"

"Charles Selachii and Cyril de Worde, you see there; Charles' sister
Sara, Sybil Ramkin, and Alice Venturi," he said. Alice would take
issue with being last, but he would deal with that later.

"You muszt be from Ankh-Morpork," Lady Margolotta said with a smile.
Havelock noticed she didn't show her teeth. "Travelers on the Grand
Sneer, perhaps?"

"Only our carriage broke down, and the driver ran off -- " Alice began.
Lady Margolotta held up a hand.

"Yes, I have heard this story before. Many times, I have told Igor to
patch zer hole in zer road, but vot can you do? It's this blasted rain
ve get," she said. Havelock detected the touch of a master liar. "Ve
are vell used to bedraggled visitors, here at zer castle. I am sure
that even as ve speak, Igor is preparing rooms for you all."

"That won't be necessary," said Havelock sharply. "If you can provide
us with -- "

"Do lay off the spanner, Havelock," Cyril said. "I for one don't want
to troop back down to the carriage in the rain. Besides, it's not as
though it's ours. And hard luck to the driver, if he runs off at the
first little sign of trouble, he doesn't deserve to keep it."

"Our luggage is down there," Sybil pointed out.

"Igor has dispatched a man to fetch it," Margolotta said smoothly. "He
iz such a treasure. I think you should listen to your friends, Mister
Vetinari."

Havelock was a smart enough man to know when to retire gracefully. He
looked to the women; Sara and Alice -- and Charles, for that matter --
looked frightened. Sybil's jaw was set, but he could see that she was
indecisive. Cyril was watching him.

"We will reimburse you for the expense," he said finally. "Regular inn
rates."

Margolotta smiled. "I vouldn't dream of taking your money," she said.
Havelock lowered his voice so that the others, several feet away,
couldn't hear.

"What exactly /would/ you dream of taking?" he asked.

Margolotta laughed. "You are a joker, Mister Vetinari! I treasure a
person who can make me laugh. Come in to dinner."

Havelock thought that the invitation could have been phrased better.
He caught Sybil's arm as she passed. The others continued on, led by
Lady Margolotta, who was explaining the origin of some object d'art
in the hallway.

"Sybil, I want you to keep an eye on the other two," he said, in an
urgent, low voice. "If we stay here tonight, she's going to put the
women in one wing and the men in another. You keep an eye on Alice and
Sara, all right?"

"Yes, of course, but..." Sybil was a woman who believed the best of
everyone. He'd nearly forgotten.

"Let's just say I don't trust her ladyship. Please, Sybil."

"All right, Havelock. Don't worry so much," she said. "Besides, I
think you've scared her. How'd you know her name?"

"She's got bookplates," he said. Sybil stifled a laugh.

The meal was obviously assembled in haste, from what happened to be
about. There was sclott, which seemed to be bread, and elderly butter;
a strange sort of soup with sausages in it; cold mutton, and liver,
served by Igor, which nobody touched.

Lady Margolotta was a good hostess, as far as entertainment went. She
kept them talking about themselves, their travels and their home; she
urged them to visit several interesting historical sites in Bonk, and
offered them the use of her carriage for the trip into town the next
day.

Havelock kept quiet, picking at his food -- he never ate much, even at
home -- and listening to the way Lady Margolotta spoke, rather than
what she said.

There was a disturbing frankness about her. She told them exactly what
they thought she was thinking. Havelock had seen Guild masters at
school pull this trick on an errant student before. He'd never seen it
done with such deftness among adults, however. Youngsters, true, none
older than twenty, but the children of nobility, for whom suspicion and
mistrust were natural survival traits.

She was charming, and attractive enough -- indeed, there was something
about the cut of the dress that made Havelock think unusual thoughts --
but she didn't seem particularly interested in any of them as a snack.
Oh, she showed interest, but not the sort Havelock was watching for.
Although that could simply mean that she knew he was watching.

No; she was intelligent, and he'd made no secret of his suspicions, but
he could tell from the indolence in her conversation that she was not
acting for his benefit. She didn't bother to check and see if he was
listening, or address specifically disinterested comments to his
neighbors.

They might, if they were careful, just get out of this alive.

Havelock was still quite young, and had years of education in politics
ahead of him before he would assume the Patricianship. Despite his
considerable intellect, it did not occur to him that she was ignoring
his companions because her interests lay elsewhere.

DA DA DAAAAA! To Be Continued...

Or, as Igors were wont to say, the glisten.

Well. The glithen, actually.

There's always a Sara. Nobody really knows why.