Well...here it is :) Thanks to everyone who's read and commented, I hope you have all enjoyed the trip.

I'm going to go have a lie down.

THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS

Not knowing what to feel or if I understand

Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...

Would she not have the advantage, after all?

This music is successful, with a "dying fall"

Now that we talk of dying --

And should I have the right to smile?

--TS Eliot

CHAPTER NINE: THE SECOND PARABLE

Editor's Note: This final chapter comes out of a much longer one, but obvious edits and margin notations have indicated that the Patrician, a man who knew the value of words, wished only this part to be made public. His other, more private musings, at his own request, have been given into the care of a colleague for safekeeping.

It is as with all things that men understand stories better than they do plain speech; is it not strange? A symbol is instinctively comprehended, while a plain fact is often thrust aside as being "untrue", either because the witness does not, or cannot, bear to face its truth. It was wise to begin with a parable; it was the instinct of a child, a most natural instinct.

In the city of Ankh-Morpork there was a Man who took to traveling, so that he might see the world and the wonders that were in it. Of all the art and culture to be offered outside of his beloved city, there was only one place he was sorry to leave. He did not dwell upon it, as the years passed, but it was never very far from his thoughts.

Power was the Man's for the taking, but he did not want power; riches were offered, but he did not want riches. He took control, whether it was for the taking or not, but control was not what he sought.

The Man loved the city more than any other thing. So he sought to make it a city worthy of the love that every man must feel for the place he was born.

He was very good at it.

He learned his lessons quickly and well, and survived and thrived upon change, but never uproar -- good, orderly, progressional change, the acceptance of ideas whose time has come.

Men who would rule, know this: there is no tide against which one can stand with impunity. Every battle takes its toll, and some will pull the sand from beneath your feet. Choose the ones worth fighting, or you find yourself drenched to the bone.

First the city, then the people, then one's servants, then oneself.

It is the only sensible way to live.

But the man forgot, as time went on, that all four must be served. The self, lastly, yes; but serve it all the same, otherwise it is not life, but merely existence.

That is all the knowledge that I have to give. If the reader has learned all he could, the world is a better place. If the reader has learned nothing, at least take this advice:

Be kind to dogs.

And the world will still be a better place.

Vetinari was already sitting at his little table in the corner room, writing, when Drumknott brought up his dinner, and a few late letters. It was soup night; on a little plate, next to the clear broth and the correspondence, were a few buttery, iced pastries, because Cook was an eternal optimist.

The Patrician ate as he wrote, spilling not a drop of ink or soup. The past four months had been busy ones; Drumknott knew that his master was planning something out of the ordinary, but he hadn't seen enough of any one part of the plan to discover just what. If it had been anyone other than Vetinari, he might have thought war, but he knew that the Patrician was very much against war; it was simply too expensive to be practical.

One never really mastered how to read Vetinari. Even Sir Samuel, who seemed to understand the man, was just as much in the dark as Drumknott. But it was obvious, since the Zhalien scandal had broken, that Vetinari was...different. He didn't actually smile more, but he seemed to have an especial zeal for his duties. It was as though, for years, he'd been doing them because someone had to; now he was doing them because it was...

Drumknott's mind rebelled at the thought of "Havelock Vetinari" and "fun" in the same sentence.

He was simply grateful that the Lady Margolotta's stay in Ankh-Morpork had been mercifully brief. He could adjust himself to many things, but he did not think he would ever have adapted to serving her breakfast in bed. Especially Vetinari's bed.

Headache, indeed.

His Lordship seemed to spend a lot more time on correspondences, too. Odd, that, what with the clacks going further and faster every day.

Vetinari handed him a stack of papers, absently eating with his other hand, and dismissed him. Drumknott smiled.

Yes. Good to be back to normal.

My dear Havelock,

I did not think, at the time, that you could possibly be right. For that you must have some tolerance; I am a woman long used to the idea that romance is something held at close quarters. But you know this.

Perhaps for us it is more than romance. If you had tried to teach me, when you were nineteen, that an affair of the mind could satisfy more than affairs of a more physical nature, I should not have respected your intellect in the slightest. You must, at the moment, have rather little respect for mine. To write to you is the most satisfying hour of my week, and to read your letters almost as good. I do not feel I miss anything; there is pragmatism and poetry to be had, and what more could either of us desire?

You protest that love is a weakness, and as such must be defended. I disagree. I think it is your strength. For me you lied and fought; your life would be far less exciting without me in it, is that not true? In Uberwald, where one stands a good chance of being staked even now, my life was rather more dull when I did not have your letters to look forward to.

Now, as to our discussions of politics. Do you believe that to foster an existing system of governance is always correct? Granted that the system is functional on a majority level, but if it is an oppression to some measure of the population --

There was a rap at the window.

Vetinari looked up from the letter he was reading. Smiled. Stood up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, five stories in the air.

"I thought you didn't do this sort of thing anymore," he said.

Margolotta, on the other side, shrugged. "For old times' sake," she said, slightly muffled by the glass.

"The letters were not enough?"

"They vere enough. But I do so love a holiday."

"I am planning a holiday."

"You are not."

"I am indeed. In a year's time, I will take a short diplomatic trip to visit the Low King."

"Ah, I see she has seduced you."

"Very amusing, Margolotta. I wonder, should I let you in?"

"I vish you vould, it's rather cold out."

He flicked a latch on the window, and pulled it inward. Margolotta stepped gracefully out of the air, and into the little room.

"Wait," he said, putting a hand up before she could move too close. He walked swiftly into the main entrance-room of his chambers, and pulled a bolt across the door. Drumknott, if he found a locked door, would know better -- this time, at any rate -- than to go any further.

Margolotta had shut the window, and was trying one of the pastries, when he returned. She put it down and dusted off her fingers daintily. And smiled at him.

"Now," the Patrician said, moving forward, "About your theories of governance..."

END