double in value!”
“Alas, yours will not be among them, Sire.”
That could present a problem further down the line ... but it wouldn’t be his problem, as he would by then be personally chatting to Tipsi and all his own departed relatives.
“Get me Gavelling.”
Surlish smartened hmself up sufficiently to present himself at the office of the Ankh-Morpork Auctioneer.
“The Patrician requests your presence, Mr. Gavelling.”
“Indeed? Does he require a private viewing?”
“Ah ... no. He is resolved on a sale.”
“A sale! Why so? With what would his Lordship grace our humble auction?”
“The fiscal climate has not been kind to him, Mr. Gavelling. He wishes to convert his forbears into liquid assets.”
“The Tipsis?!”
“The very same.”
“Alas, Mr. Surlish, with the greatest respect, no-one will touch them. Despite the fame of the late Leonardo, his pre-sgraffito style is now utterly passé. The portraits are worth more to the Palace as insulation. But ... I have an idea!”
Over gold-rimmed cups of Klatchian coffee the Patrician and his Auctioneer regarded each other thoughtfully.
“You have an alternative proposal, Mr. Gavelling?”
“I have, my Lord. You have a cousin. Jack Vetinari.”
“That inarticulate layabout who went off to Pseudopolis and drank everything the family were foolish enough to send him?”
“My Lord, Jack Vetinari took to painting. His works ‘The Whistling Golem’ and ‘Dance Me To The Edge Of The Rim’ grace living-rooms and stationers all over the Disc. If you were to acquire the originals I believe the investment would solve all your immediate problems. But there is a catch.” Gavelling looked askance at the Patrician. “The canvases are no longer in your cousin’s possession.”
“Then requisition them! On my orders! What could be simpler?”
“My Lord, on one recent, particularly festive Hogswatch they passed into the hands of two ... er ... very popular ladies, in return for extraordinary favours. I rather doubt that these ... er ... romantic gifts would be willingly surrendered. You may, my Lord, find it necessary to negotiate.”
“With women ?”
“To be precise - with the Honourable Tansy Strapping and Lady Pulcherrima Gland.”
The Patrician visibly paled. He had managed to keep the so-called fairer sex at bay for most of his life ... and now his very survival meant engaging with two of the highest-profile, lowest-cleavage B-listers in Hi-Yah! magazine.
“Sire, do you wish me to summon the ladies?” Surlish had been silent, his impassive features hiding a turmoil of racy memories and surprisingly naughty thoughts.
“Yes, Surlish, I’m afraid you will have to. Mr. Gavelling, thank you for your advice; Surlish will accompany you to the door.”
The coffee-cups were out again; scarlet roses and golden lilies spilled out of every ancient vase in the Oblong Office. Havelock Vetinari never, ever betrayed his feelings - but blood smeared the quicks around his immaculate nails. Surlish had appeared carrying a wriggling bundle - and now a very small sunset-pink dragon was curled at the Patrician’s feet, squeaking for attention.
“Oh, how cute !”
The exotic body of Lady Pulcherrima Gland undulated through the mighty double doors and overwhelmed the room with Pure Poisson. The huge baby eyes of the dragon glowed as she bent to stroke it, revealing such curves as Havelock had only imagined in his most disturbed sleep. A long, slender blue tongue flickered up her silky legs. Surlish stifled a groan.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Lady Gland.”
“Thank you.” She rearranged her knees. “What can I do for you?”
“We are waiting for one more guest; then we have a little matter to discuss.”
Five uneasy minutes later Surlish again swung the great doors open to admit the Honourable Tansy Strapping. She creaked like an Igor as she strode across the parquet, every inch of her squeezed into maraschino leather.
“See to my horse, fellow,” she said. “Vetinari, we meet at last!”
“Ladies,” said the Patrician. “you each have something eminently desirable which would, I understand, bring me considerable material relief.”
Both women leaned closer to their host...
“Our experience is at your service ... Havelock.” Lady Gland was almost purring.
“Ah! No ... Ladies, you each possess a precious canvas, an original Jack Vetinari. I wish to come to some agreement. The paintings, by a member of my own family, should belong to the Palace. What are your terms?”
Lady Pulcherrima stepped back and took the Honourable Tansy by a muscular arm.
“We did not come here to be exploited ...”
“Nor insulted ...”
“The paintings were gifts ...”
“Of great sentimental value ...”
“We have no business here.”
Just as the ladies turned on their expensive heels, Surlish moved rapidly forward and whispered with unusual animation into his master’s ear.
Then: “Lady Gland. Miss Tansy. My predicament is such that I am obliged to take a drastic step, unprecedented in my ...hrrrm... years as ruler of Ankh-Morpork. I am willing - subject to the canvas passing into my possession, thence to be sold to defray the Palace debt - to offer one of you my hand in marriage.”
Neither lady, despite appearances, was any longer in the first flush of her youth. Both had secretly considered retirement and wondered who would now have them. This was a singular opportunity to secure prestige and pampering into their old age. They glared at each other.
“My Lord, I accept!” they exclaimed in unison.
Surlish hastened to Havelock’s ear once more.
“There is apparently a precedent for the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork to take more than one wife. The offer is therefore open to both of you. And you would be company for each other,” added the desperate Lord, thinking, “and maybe they would leave me alone.”
Ankh-Morpork had never seen such celebrations. The river pageantry of the double wedding filled a whole issue of Hi-Yah!, and even reclusive cousin Jack turned up to toast the good fortune of his former consorts. He was now so rich that he bought back his own canvases, the Palace was saved, and Havelock Vetinari settled back into an interesting old age with bosom friends who at last could shelve their plans for a Civil Partnership.
Back to Top
THE REAL PRINCESS
The Real Princess gingerly descended the delicate ladder, wincing at every backward step.
“I’m absolutely shattered,” she said to the Lackey who had been looking up her nightie all the way from the towering topmost mattress to the richly carpeted floor.
“How can anyone hope to sleep with a great lump in the bed? Look at me! I’m black and blue! What on earth was the reason I had such a dreadful night?”
“Merely a pea, your Highness,” replied the beaming Lackey. It was time to explain.
“Certainly not,” retorted the Real Princess, “I was up there for seven hours straight; and now if you don’t mind ...”
“I meant a pea,” said the Lackey, who with some difficulty had pushed his hand under the bottom-most mattress and retrieved a tiny, hard, dark green sphere barely larger than a piece of grit. “Look! This is what bruised your royally sensitive limbs, Highness. You have passed our most stringent test! My master the Prince will be delighted to know that at last he has found a Real Princess. I shall tell him at once.”
“Your precious Prince has a lot to answer for. I have been cruelly mistreated. My whole body hurts. ... doN’T TOUCH ME!...” as the Prince’s Lackey reached out a consoling hand toward her silken shoulder “.... I need your physician, and I want a lawyer. A pea. How dare he abuse his honoured guest this way.”
“At once, Highness. At once.”
Prince Gorgeous was in his dressing gown sipping the most expensive morning coffee in the world whose bean
s had passed through the entrails of a swamp dragon, and playing the stock market on his Y-pad. One gold sleeve brushed the Mangosteen marmalade.
“Lackey! A fresh gown. Now.”
“Your Royal Highness, your special guest has awakened.” The Lackey’s nose was in the immaculate carpet, his eyes level with slippers so encrusted with rubies they could have bought the entire kingdom of Oz.
“And? I presume that as usual she slept well and will be departing after tea and toast?”
“No Sire! She has hardly slept! She thought she was lying on a boulder and now every inch of her perfect body ...” he paused momentarily at the dizzying memory “... is in extreme pain.”
“Then bring her to me immediately! The gods be praised, I may at long last have found a suitable wife.”
“Sire, she has asked for a physician ... and for a lawyer. She is not best pleased with the overnight accommodation afforded by our palace.”
“They will have to wait. She will understand that my word is my command. Does she have a name?”
“I don’t know, Sire. I’ll fetch her.”
The Lackey had long passed pensionable age and nearly toppled onto his Prince as he creaked and staggered back to the vertical position. He found the Real Princess pacing the tastefully appointed guest apartment in obvious annoyance.
“Is there no breakfast to be had in this place?” she demanded. “I arrive in the middle of the night, I’m bundled out of a carriage into a chair, rushed up to this room without a word, hoisted into this impossible bed, no introductions, no supper, and wake up half-crippled and starving! No doctor has come, no lawyer has been in