Once again, I blame Yap for this.

Oh, it's not like I hadn't thought about it, but Yap was the shamelessly
encouraging one. Yap was the one who said if I didn't do this one, I'd
have to do an addendum to Dame Rumour about Vetinari's stag night (the mind
boggles, makes a wipwipwip noise, and explodes). She beta-ed it too. Her
fault. I swear it.

I did have an awful lot of fun working out exactly how to go about it,
though. So that's all right.

Also, I blame Mary, Lunar, and Twoflower, for their betas. And putting
up with my constant whining.

Enjoy, gentle readers.

EITHER WAY

Nunc est bibendum.
(Now drinking should be done.)
-- Horace, on the death of Cleopatra.

It was high summer in Ankh-Morpork, and the smoke was beginning to drift.

The air was heavy and hot, dry as an oven, and the Ankh had been moving
sluggishly through the city for days, drying up little by little. In the
little foothills turnwise of the city, a refugee camp was going up, and
on the edges of the refugee camp, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat on a
rock and watched his city burn.

Well, he had /been/ watching. He had been watching when the first flames
went up over the Alchemist's guild, looking out on the city from his
window in the Oblong office. He had been watching when the golems
converged on it, and he had been watching when it began to rage out of
their control. He'd seen Vimes and the others running down towards the
river gate to try and close it, flood the city with the little trickle
of Ankh that was left.

He'd seen Carrot begin the evacuation.

And finally, when it became obvious that no more could be done, he'd
gone and let Leonard out, and evacuated himself.

The city had burned before, of course. And would burn again. Timber and
thatch were cheap to come by, easy to build with. Tar was good
waterproofing. Some of those roofs would burn for hours. Vetinari had
been perhaps twenty the last time a fire raged through, and not yet
Patrician.

Vimes had got the river gate closed, much good it did him; the Ankh was
just now breaking its banks, beginning to flood the city streets and, if
not put out any fires, at least isolate the ones that were left. Every
golem in the city was still down there, slogging through the mud, making
sure some of the more opportunistic looters weren't getting the
opportunity for much, except perhaps a night under arrest.

Vetinari sighed. There was going to be a lot of recovery work to be
done, once the smoke cleared. The guilds would take care of their own,
and so would the richer inhabitants of the city, but Vimes would be at
him for emergency funds for the honest little tradesmen's streets down
near the Shades, and there were almost certainly going to be widows and
orphans at some point. There usually were.

"Burns pretty. It's the sewage, makes the flames go all green like
that."

Vetinari didn't turn; he was watching flame creep over the roof of a
distillery. The explosion was spectacular.

Vimes threw himself down on the grass next to the Patrician's rock. He
smelled vaguely of underdone steak, and had a carry-sack with him. Most
of his hair was singed, and while he'd washed his face, he obviously
hadn't had a mirror to look in when he was done. There were sooty finger-
marks where he'd rubbed the bridge of his nose at some point.

"I'm surprised, Commander," Vetinari said, bending studiously to a
notebook which sat on one knee. He checked something off, and looked up
again. "I'd have thought you'd be in the camp, giving commands."

Vimes snorted. "Carrot wouldn't let me. He told everyone not to listen
to anything I said."

"And they obeyed?"

"I told him it was insurrection, but -- "

" -- he's Carrot," Vetinari chimed in. "How long has it been since you
slept, Sir Samuel?"

"About forty hours."

"I'd advise it."

"I'm through tired now and out the other side. I brought food along.
Drumknott said you wouldn't eat."

"There were those hungrier than I."

"Me, for one," Vimes said, taking a greasy packet out of the carry-sack.
"I nicked some cold chicken. I'm pretty sure the people selling it for
two dollars a slice stole it originally, so I don't feel too badly for
them. Have some."

Vetinari regarded the chicken cautiously. "Is it supposed to be edible?"

"Try it and find out." Vimes bit into his own slice with a ravenous
hunger. "Or I've got some stale bread that's been sitting in the bottom
of the pack, if you'd prefer."

Vetinari accepted a chunk of bread, and chewed thoughtfully while the
pair watched the flames begin to die down.

"Have you seen Lady Sybil?" Vetinari asked, finally.

"Sort of. We sent Buggy up on the wing and he says she's herding dragons,
hubwards of here. Got young Sam with her. Both of 'em all right. Doubt the
fire'll get as far as the house, anyhow."

"A small mercy."

"What about you? Shouldn't you be down in the thick of it, solving things?"

"Oh, in a situation such as this, a politician such as myself really
becomes rather useless, you know. All the obvious things to be done have
been done, and there is little call for subtlety when dealing with a
raging flame. I leave Drumknott and Captain Carrot to the handling of
things. For now," he added, making another notation in his book before
closing it and laying it aside.

"Makes sense, I suppose," Vimes murmured.

He could hear the fatigue in the Commander's voice, now.

"You really ought to sleep, Sir Samuel."

"You really ought to mind your own business, Lord Vetinari."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. It wasn't exactly rare for the Commander of
the Watch to be rude to his superiors, but this was more than even Sir
Samuel normally dared. The Commander laughed, mirthlessly.

"Which reminds me why I came here," he said, taking one more object out
of the pack. He tossed the glass bottle to Vetinari, who caught it
handily. "Business. Our business."

Vetinari held the bottle up to the dying light of the sunset. "Complet
Vodka," he read. "Product of NoThingFjord."

"Yes."

"This is not our business," Vetinari said, as if speaking to a very
young child.

"No. The city's our business. Yours and mine. Even Carrot has hobbies.
You and I, we're two old bastards who do nothing all day except look
after the city that just burnt to the ground," Vimes continued, taking
the bottle back and uncorking it with his teeth. "So you and I, Lord
Havelock Vetinari, are going to get roaring drunk."

"Lady Sybil wouldn't like that."

"Doubt she would. Doubt she would. But I have been on the wagon for six
years, three months, two days and fifteen hours. Not a day goes by that
I don't want this. And when my city burns down, godsdammit, I'm going to
have it. It'll be worth it."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Sir Samuel. You'd never forgive me
later, and I would live in fear of your wife's wrath."

Vimes glared up at him. "I didn't ask your permission."

"You won't drink that."

"Fine. Then you drink it." He passed the bottle back. Vetinari held it
in his hands, leaning forward.

"It is our city, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

"No. We can say she's ours, but it's not really true. We're hers. Her
men. There's a difference," Vimes answered. "Are you going to have some,
or not?"

Vetinari gave him a cold smile, lifted an eyebrow, raised the bottle to
his lips, and tossed it back quickly, swallowing a mouthful. The vodka
burned on its way down, and he wiped his lips delicately with his thumb,
setting the bottle by his feet. Vimes stared at him.

"You actually did it," he said, shocked. Vetinari nodded, absently.

"Do you know, Sir Samuel, the last time I had anything stronger than the
dreadful sherry they serve at official functions, I was twenty-two?" he
said, in the same quiet tone. "Beer, occasionally, though not very often.
I never acquired a taste for alcohol, really."

"I did," Vimes said ruefully.

"Yes, I rather imagine so."

The other man leaned back, and stared at the stars which were beginning
to emerge in the dark night sky. Vetinari picked up the bottle, and took
another drink, to prevent the Commander's hand from wandering over to
it.

"Ankh-Morpork has absolutely no redeeming qualities," Vetinari said
reflectively. "Except for certain industrial considerations, and
possibly some interesting architecture."

"Petty little people," Vimes agreed. "Skin you for the dollar in your
pocket."

"There's the smell."

"Baking summers. Freezing bloody winters."

"A river you can chew."

"Air, too," Vimes said, with a smile. He was still staring upwards.
"How's it all work, really?"

"Are you asking rhetorically?" Vetinari asked, taking another sip and
coughing. "Or do you have six weeks to spare for the politics seminar?"

"Well, I didn't expect an answer. But you know how it works, don't you?
You're like the master clockmaker. You know every little gear, and how it
turns, and who turns it. You turn them all, in the end."

"You're a poet, Vimes. I never suspected."

Vimes took another bite of chicken, and chewed it thoughtfully.

"You didn't answer me," he said.

"It would be the height of hubris to imagine," Vetinari said slowly. He
could feel the alcohol burning in his empty stomach, and bit into the
bread again. "I don't turn all the gears. That would be fruitless. I
discover which ones need it, and attend to them, when I can. I imagine I
only really know a fraction of them. Perhaps I do know how it works.
Sometimes I wish I di -- "

There was a sudden plume of coloured smoke, and Vimes sat up on his
elbows.

"That's Dorfl's signal," he said, with satisfaction. "Means the city to
the river is cleared. Soon as the sun rises, we can move people back
into Morpork."

"Indeed. Hopefully the city will no longer be under water by then."

Vimes laughed, a tired, almost giddy laugh. "It's going to reek. I mean,
new levels of pure smell will have been achieved. Burnt paint and river
water and mud, and dead things, I'm sure there will be -- " his voice
cracked, slightly. Vetinari gave him a mild look.

"I'm sure there'll be the dead to see to," Vimes murmured, not laughing
anymore. Vetinari, dully, offered him the bottle. He seemed to consider
it, and pushed it back. The Patrician took another deep drink.

"Sometimes, your Grace, you're a stronger man than I am," Vetinari said.

"If you could do this job, I wouldn't be doing it," Vimes answered. "I
wouldn't trade places with you for -- "

Vetinari held up a hand. It wavered, slightly. "Let us agree," he said,
concentrating on every word, "that, having found ourselves at the mercy
of the city, we neither of us would trade our servitude for the
other's."

"I dunno what that means, but I'll buy it," grunted the Commander. "Ye
gods, how much of that have you had?"

"Hm?" Vetinari asked. "No, Vimes -- " he said, as the policeman reached
for the bottle. "I told you. Sybil wouldn't like it."

"Half the bottle and two bites of bread. You're going to really hate me
tomorrow," Vimes said, a worried tinge entering his voice. He managed to
wrestle the vodka from Vetinari, and tipped the rest out onto the grass.
Vetinari smiled.

"What goes around comes around, eh?"

"What?"

"How often, Vimes, have you wanted to kill me?"

Vimes considered it. His own brain, he was well aware, was not fully
functioning. "I lost track," he said, finally. "I sort of decided just
to live with always wanting you dead."

"I shall bear that in mind, tomorrow morning." Vetinari rested his
elbows on his knees, and stared down at the steaming city. "I feel a bit
light-headed, Commander. Er. My fingers appear to be tingling."

"Nice, isn't it?" Vimes asked, with an envious sigh. "If you try to sing,
I /am/ going to have to knock you cold."

"Sing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah yes. Songs of the Hedgehog variety? Or possibly about wizards' staffs?"

"Good place to start."

"There's a song about me, you know."

"Several, sir."

Vetinari nodded, musingly. All the words, he thought. All the words that
I've never said, all the unwise truths, all the insults I so dearly
wanted to make. All the weaknesses that a man never dares to confess.
One more drink and I could say them all.

And Vimes felt like this for twenty years solid. No wonder he's so angry.

"Well, anger's not so bad, as a tool," Vimes said, and Vetinari realised
he'd said at least a part of his internal monologue aloud. "There are
worse habits to have than perpetual rage."

"Odious cigars, for one," Vetinari replied, seeing the glint of Vimes'
cigar case.

"You've never had a really good cigar," Vimes replied amiably, putting
one in his mouth. "Got a light?"

Vetinari burst out laughing. He put his face in his hands and laughed,
and laughed. Vimes, worried, followed the other man's gesture. Down
below, to the city.

"There's your light," Vetinari said, containing himself. "A whole bloody
city on fire. Ankh-Morpork, the light of the Sto Plains. The light of
/civilisation, Vimes."

"Which doesn't do me much good when I want -- hah!" Vimes pulled a
dented matchbox out of the carry-sack. He lit the cigar, inhaled, leaned
back again.

"Ankh-Morpork," he said. "Bloody great city, that."

"Damn fine city. Our city."

"Nope. We're hers."

"Either way."

Vimes nodded. "Either way," he agreed.

There was a chiming noise from his pocket, and he drew out his watch.
"Sixteen hours," he said with a sigh.

"Pardon?"

"Six years, three months, two days, and /sixteen/ hours sober. Thanks to
you, you bastard. I was really looking forward to that drink."

"I suggest, Commander, that you, in the words of your training-school
sergeants, 'suck it up'."

Vimes snorted, sleepily. "And, in the words of those same sergeants -- "

"Tut, Vimes."

"I hate camping," Vimes mumbled, pulling the carry-sack around and
thumping it into a vaguely pillow-shaped form. He laid his head back on
it, giving the stars another good glare before closing his eyes. "If
the gods meant us to sleep on the ground, they'd have made it softer."

"Don't you have a tent of some kind? I'm sure I saw one."

"The Watch got one. Full up already, and it smells funny. S'a warm night,
no reason not to sleep where we drop."

"I doubt I could walk very far," Vetinari said uncertainly. Vimes turned
a yawn into a laugh.

"Pull up a rock and get some shut-eye. We're going to have a lot of work
tomorrow, and you're going to be hung-over."

Vetinari nodded, and -- moving quite slowly -- curled up on the other
side of the rock from Vimes. The last thing he heard was a warning from
the Commander that he'd thump him if he snored.

END