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The scent of lilacs hangs in the air over Ankh-Morpork, and the comparative quiet of the spring night is broken by the noisy rattle of a coach rolling over the cobblestones.
Because tonight there is no sneaking around required; no skulking through the shadows of the city’s alleyways, no careful scaling of crumbling walls, no deft navigation of treacherous rooftops. Tonight there is no need to worry about what others will think if the patrician is seen arriving at the Ramkin house after midnight.
No: tonight he arrives at Scoone Avenue by coach and knocks brazenly on the front door, because tonight is different. Tonight he is not Havelock, visiting Sam; he is Lord Vetinari, visiting His Grace, the Duke of Ankh.
An official act that no one could suggest is anything more than it is.
Willikins is silent as he shows him into the dimly lit house, and Lord Vetinari notes that the flowers in every room are failing to fully hide the underlying scent of blood.
His instincts tell him to leave, because surely if he never sees what is causing his nose to wrinkle in distaste, none of this will be real? He can return to the palace, to the comfort of his work and the distraction of the city, and forget all about the breathless runner who had arrived with the news a mere twenty minutes ago.
Still, his dutiful feet carry him up the stairs and then, on the upper landing, a sound finally stops him in his tracks.
Soft sobs, drifting down the hallway.
Sybil, his brain suggests, but that must be wrong; when he has known Sybil to cry before it has been discreet sniffs and dabs of the eye with a neat cotton handkerchief and not…this.
Not this wretched and hateful sound, that crawls inside him and settles in his bones like an animal coming home to die.
Lord Vetinari forces his feet to move again, to head towards the source of the sound; their master bedroom, a room he is achingly familiar with.
The bedroom is at the far end of a corridor that seems to stretch forever and when he finally reaches it he hesitates outside the door, because Havelock has never had cause to knock on it before, but Lord Vetinari must surely request permission to enter.
He taps on it lightly, and the sobs from within silence abruptly. A moment later the Duchess of Ankh opens the door, her head raised and shoulders back and eyes red-rimmed and wet.
“Oh,” she says. “Havelock.”
He inclines his head and murmurs her name in greeting, and for a second he sees her lower lip tremble. She presses her mouth closed, and then another of those detestable sobs escapes her and she throws her arms around him.
Lord Vetinari tenses at the impropriety; Havelock, however, places a hand on her back and breathes in the scent of her hair and presses a dry kiss to her temple.
They stand like that for an age, until Sybil gathers herself and steps aside to let him in. He steels himself, and crosses the soft-lit room to stand by the figure in the bed.
The commander is pale and sweating beneath his thin sheet, and his breath is coming in quick, ragged bursts. He opens his eyes as the patrician’s shadow falls over him, and there is an edge of fear in them that the opium can’t fully dull.
“Sir,” he manages.
There is a pause as Vetinari wonders what he can possibly say; I’m sorry, commander, perhaps, or my condolences, your grace?
His eyes alight on the bloodstain that is seeping through the wad of bandages pressed to Sam’s side, and the reality of the situation hits every part of him at once.
It is like being shot with the gonne all over again.
"Oh, love,” Havelock murmurs softly. “What have you done to yourself?"
Behind him he hears Sybil let out another of those awful sobs, and then the door closes behind her as she evidently flees. Sam’s eyes are drawn by the movement and he furrows his brow faintly as he watches her leave, before dragging his gaze back up to Havelock’s face.
“Got too slow,” he wheezes. “Can’t dodge like I used to.”
Havelock sighs, because it is true; they are getting old. Soon the rooftops and walls and alleys would have been out of the question anyway, although truly the secrecy was more a habit, after all these years.
Now, he supposes, he will not need to worry about what might happen when their secret is inevitably discovered.
“I suppose I shouldn’t bother pointing out that this wouldn’t have happened if you had retired when I first asked you to?”
Sam snorts, and then grimaces. “Nope.” He stares up at Havelock, and his pupils are so large Havelock can barely make out the brown of his irises surrounding them.
It makes him seem somehow even more vulnerable, and Havelock reaches out and takes hold of his hand for something else to look at. “You damned idiot, Vimes,” he says quietly.
“I know.” Sam gives him a grin that is weak and pained but still undoubtedly, perfectly him, and rasps, “I loved you too, you bastard.”
Lord Vetinari raises an eyebrow, as Havelock’s heart shatters inside his chest.
He wants to leave; he doesn’t want to watch this. But Vimes is still holding his hand, and his grip is tighter than it has any right to be under the circumstances and that, too, is incontrovertibly him.
And so Havelock sits down in a chair beside the bed, and waits with him.