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hsavinienTitle: The Three Clerks
Author: H. Savinien
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Ankh-Morpork, Samuel Vimes, the City Watch, and all related concepts are the intellectual property of Sir Pterry. This fanwork is intended as a tribute.
Wordcount: 666
Author's Note: More City Watch gen. ^_^
***
“I am Miss Tolmie, Your Grace,” the woman said, her rectangular spectacles glinting sparks of gold light directly into Vimes's tired eyes. “These are my associates, Mr Trimble and Miss Trutch. We will be serving His Lordship through the auspices outlined in that report,” she nodded at the thick sheaf of papers in front of him, “and of course rendering our clerical assistance in the classification and organization of the Watch records.”
“...ah,” Vimes said. “I don't suppose I can convince you to call me Mister Vimes or just sir? No, no, I thought not,” he continued absently. He was forming a mental picture tinged with exhaustion-inspired hilarity of these three polished clerks staring at a pile of reports and notes scribbled on napkins and stained beer mats and the bits of paper handy in one's pockets at two a.m. after a long rainy chase. He coughed and smoothed the corners of his mouth to stifle the urge to laugh. “Do you want the original reports or the official ones?”
Mr Trimble had mud-colored hair cropped short like a fighter's, but his spidery delicate hands looked like they'd splinter if he made a fist. He glared. “The originals, of course, Your Grace.”
Vimes coughed again and nodded. Well, they brought it on themselves. “Right. Do any of you read Dwarfish, then?”
“Do your officers not write in Morporkian?” the third clerk barked, sounding faintly scandalised. Miss Trutch, as she must be, had a sort of martial air about her that reminded Vimes of some of Sybil's acquaintances. Not the bluff, harmless heartiness of her dragon-fancier friends, but the kind who talked with too much relish about their ancestors storming off to slaughter some poor bastard unlucky enough to be born in another country and end up across a battlefield from His Excellency Viscount Has-A-Big-Sword (Oh-But-We-Always-Called-Him-Uncle-Tipper). She brandished her pen like it was a spear and had a clipboard. Vimes instinctively distrusted people who carried clipboards.
“They do in their official reports,” Vimes said patiently. “Since the originals are never turned in to the Palace, though, some of the officers find it easier to use their own language.”
Miss Trutch snorted. “Pampering.”
Miss Tolmie quelled her with a glare over the tops of her spectacles. “I can read Dwarfish adequately, Your Grace. We will manage well enough.”
I hope so, Vimes thought. Lord Vetinari's going to be well and truly irritated with the Watch if we lose him another set of clerks. “All right then. I'll have an officer show you the storage cupboards. There's an office down at the end of the hall you can set up in. I wouldn't open the window if I were you.”
“Why is that?” Mr Trimble asked, eyes narrowing.
“It's been a warm week,” Vimes said. “The window looks out on a scenic view of the privy pit and Golden Harry's been having a worker's strike.”
Mr Trimble looked nauseous.
Vimes picked up the speaking tube and whistled into it.
“wrgsitl?”
“Constable Haddock, isn't it? Send up Constable Merryweather to take care of Lord Vetinari's clerks.”
“fhsletstr.”
“Right.” He replaced it. “If you need anything within reason, ask the constable. Try not to get in anyone's way while they're doing their jobs and don't bother Igor unless you've lost a limb in a freak filing accident. Anything else?”
Miss Tolmie pursed her lips. “I'm sure the situation will be acceptable.”
“Good. You'll excuse me then. I was due home several hours ago for lunch and if I hurry, I might at least get tea.” Vimes rubbed his forehead tiredly and levered himself up from his desk, stuck his truncheon in the special pocket Sybil had stitched to his coat for it, and belted on his sword. He nodded to the three clerks and abandoned them to the oncoming cheerful wave of obstinacy that was Constable Merryweather.
Author: H. Savinien
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Ankh-Morpork, Samuel Vimes, the City Watch, and all related concepts are the intellectual property of Sir Pterry. This fanwork is intended as a tribute.
Wordcount: 666
Author's Note: More City Watch gen. ^_^
***
“I am Miss Tolmie, Your Grace,” the woman said, her rectangular spectacles glinting sparks of gold light directly into Vimes's tired eyes. “These are my associates, Mr Trimble and Miss Trutch. We will be serving His Lordship through the auspices outlined in that report,” she nodded at the thick sheaf of papers in front of him, “and of course rendering our clerical assistance in the classification and organization of the Watch records.”
“...ah,” Vimes said. “I don't suppose I can convince you to call me Mister Vimes or just sir? No, no, I thought not,” he continued absently. He was forming a mental picture tinged with exhaustion-inspired hilarity of these three polished clerks staring at a pile of reports and notes scribbled on napkins and stained beer mats and the bits of paper handy in one's pockets at two a.m. after a long rainy chase. He coughed and smoothed the corners of his mouth to stifle the urge to laugh. “Do you want the original reports or the official ones?”
Mr Trimble had mud-colored hair cropped short like a fighter's, but his spidery delicate hands looked like they'd splinter if he made a fist. He glared. “The originals, of course, Your Grace.”
Vimes coughed again and nodded. Well, they brought it on themselves. “Right. Do any of you read Dwarfish, then?”
“Do your officers not write in Morporkian?” the third clerk barked, sounding faintly scandalised. Miss Trutch, as she must be, had a sort of martial air about her that reminded Vimes of some of Sybil's acquaintances. Not the bluff, harmless heartiness of her dragon-fancier friends, but the kind who talked with too much relish about their ancestors storming off to slaughter some poor bastard unlucky enough to be born in another country and end up across a battlefield from His Excellency Viscount Has-A-Big-Sword (Oh-But-We-Always-Called-Him-Uncle-Tipper). She brandished her pen like it was a spear and had a clipboard. Vimes instinctively distrusted people who carried clipboards.
“They do in their official reports,” Vimes said patiently. “Since the originals are never turned in to the Palace, though, some of the officers find it easier to use their own language.”
Miss Trutch snorted. “Pampering.”
Miss Tolmie quelled her with a glare over the tops of her spectacles. “I can read Dwarfish adequately, Your Grace. We will manage well enough.”
I hope so, Vimes thought. Lord Vetinari's going to be well and truly irritated with the Watch if we lose him another set of clerks. “All right then. I'll have an officer show you the storage cupboards. There's an office down at the end of the hall you can set up in. I wouldn't open the window if I were you.”
“Why is that?” Mr Trimble asked, eyes narrowing.
“It's been a warm week,” Vimes said. “The window looks out on a scenic view of the privy pit and Golden Harry's been having a worker's strike.”
Mr Trimble looked nauseous.
Vimes picked up the speaking tube and whistled into it.
“wrgsitl?”
“Constable Haddock, isn't it? Send up Constable Merryweather to take care of Lord Vetinari's clerks.”
“fhsletstr.”
“Right.” He replaced it. “If you need anything within reason, ask the constable. Try not to get in anyone's way while they're doing their jobs and don't bother Igor unless you've lost a limb in a freak filing accident. Anything else?”
Miss Tolmie pursed her lips. “I'm sure the situation will be acceptable.”
“Good. You'll excuse me then. I was due home several hours ago for lunch and if I hurry, I might at least get tea.” Vimes rubbed his forehead tiredly and levered himself up from his desk, stuck his truncheon in the special pocket Sybil had stitched to his coat for it, and belted on his sword. He nodded to the three clerks and abandoned them to the oncoming cheerful wave of obstinacy that was Constable Merryweather.
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Date: 2011-02-22 03:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-22 05:52 am (UTC)