milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Assassin, bar, shadowy corner thereof.

Havelock is unobtrusive as always, but solidly there to all eyes, in a way that sometimes he manages not to be.

He may know about this. Then again, he may not. It is unclear.

By one elbow there is a faintly steaming mug giving off the faint rich smell of good, strong coffee.

In his hands, there is a small crossbow, which the young man examines closely and meticulously for signs of rust or wear.

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Birds of a Disc feather flock together.

One Duchess of Sto Helit, sitting in the bar not far off.

He may notice her.

It's even probable, in fact, as his eyes travel over most of the bar, taking the place and its patrons in. Some people only see what is obvious. Havelock Vetinari was never one of them.

But for now he remains silent, sure fingers delicately checking balance and catches, and waits.

Susan's seen pictures of the Patrician before, can guess at this man's identity. Appreciates, very fully, that she's sitting a short distance away from the most dangerous man in the Disc.

"I hope it's not aimed in my direction," she says calmly, in a low, even voice, to her drink.

He might seem a good deal younger than his pictures. But Susan, of all people, shouldn't have trouble with that. He tilts his head quietly down at the weapon.

"No violence in the bar," he quotes dryly. "And no business either. That is two rules most stringently enforced in this place."

The suggestion that he might shoot it by accident gets no consideration.

He doesn't have accidents with weapons. Not him.

"I'd ask if violence was your business," Susan says with a half-smile, looking over. "But an Assassin would never stoop to something like violence."

He tilts his head in what could be taken as the ghost of a shrug.

"Perhaps. But others take very different views from those of the Guild, as I am aware."

"Not myself," she says, extending her hand for him to shake. "Not in the fine Sto Helit tradition, really. And not others here, I would hope..."

Another infinitesimal shrug.

"Violence is violence, contracted or no. You are from the Disc, then. I thought your accent sounded familiar, if you do not mind my saying."

His eyes flicker over her hand, the fall of her sleeve, almost as a matter of habit, before lightly and briefly taking her hand. His fingers are oddly cool.

She's impressed, smiles slowly. "I've spent time in Ankh-Morpork, on... business matters. Sto Helit is my home, though--my father was the Duke, under Queen Keliherenna's reign."

He nods once, noncommittally.

"Ah yes, Your Grace. I know the place, though not well."

Susan shrugs a little. "I teach at a school in Quirm--my business takes me everywhere. I'll never really feel like a duchess." Her teeth flash in a smile at this.

"I do not believe that is required."

He holds the small bow up to the light, then apparently satisfied, he begins to disassemble it, quickly and carefully.

"I have no desire to be one, at any rate." She watches his movements, leaning her head against her hand. "It's a Guild secret, I suppose--but do the Assassins really train with every weapon in existence?"

"No," he says casually.

...

And that appears to have answered the question, from his perspective, at least.

Guild secret, then. "You seem to be good with a crossbow--" she nods at the weapon. "I wonder about some of the other weapons in here..."

He shrugs innocently.

Er.

"Do you?"

This blank face may not be as good as Death's, but...

It's damn good. They are in the same business, so to speak.

"I think I could manage a crossbow." Her eyes light up, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Most can, with a steady hand," he says.

"It is the will lacking, in most."

"Do you lack the will--sometimes?"

She can't ever imagine this man--the future Patrician, if she's guessed right--having any weakness, any hesitation.

Havelock Vetinari doesn't answer her. Not out loud, anyhow. His expression, what there is of it, is serene, no trace of doubt.

He carefully slips the parts of the crossbow into separate pockets of a velvet non-clink bag.

"You--" it almost slips out, and Susan has to bite her lip, "--could be the greatest--at what you do--in the entire Disc. The universe, maybe."

"I highly doubt that."

The soft calm voice is near-impossibly even.

He knows what he is capable of.

And what he is not.

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