#drumknott

The Patrician, Lord Vetinari, and his personal secretary, Mr. Drumknott.

From the back, Vetinari looked like a carnivorous flamingo. -- (Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms)

The little pink man was in hog heaven. -- (Terry Pratchett, Raising Steam in reference to Drumknott)

And I looked at the puzzles,,,

Is this DRUMKNOTT??? Official Drumknott art??? Actually real and true??

'Ah, Lipwig,' he said, waving the grubby envelopes. 'Wonderful stuff! Better than the crossword! I like this one: "Duzbuns Hopsit pfarmerrsc". I've put the correct address underneath.' He passed the letter over to Moist.

He had written: K. Whistler, Baker, 3 Pigsty Hill.

'There are three bakeries in the city that could be said to be opposite a pharmacy,' said Vetinari, 'but Whistler does those rather good curly buns that regrettably look as though a dog has just done his business on your plate and somehow managed to add a blob of icing.'

'Well done, sir,' said Moist weakly.

At the other end of the room Frank and Dave, who spent their time deciphering the illegible, misspelled, misdirected or simply insane mail that sleeted through the Blind Letter Office every day, were watching Vetinari in shock and awe. In the corner, Drumknott appeared to be brewing tea.

"I should like you to think of me as an angel," or how Vetinari got his wings.

Magic is funny on the Disc. Whatever enough people believe becomes true, even gods. But once they're sentient, they have full control of their domain, and the superiority complex to go with it. Even though their character is informed by people's belief, their thoughts are their own. Knowing this, Vetinari steers clear of the whole subject, but in a moment of drunken recklessness he dares tempt Fate.

It begins with an itch between shoulder blades that he can't scratch because it's under skin. He rolls his shoulders when no one is looking because it helps. Going to bed, he feels the area and to his horror finds two hard little lumps beside his spine.

Next morning he's ravenous like a teenager again, ordering brunch as soon as he's finished breakfast, doubling the portions indefinetly. If it weren't impsossible, he'd think he's pregnant.

During next morning's bath, he finds the things on his back are longer, and later, reading the reports, he catches himself rubbing the divot between collar bones. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and focuses on the news, dreading the thought that there might be more tomorrow. He dives into his work to stop his toughts from spiraling.

By lunch he decides to see where this is going, thinking he can always amputate or starve them if it turns out for the worst. Whatever they are, they are symetrical, implying order, so he requests spinach instead of cabbage, and milk in his coffee to help it along.

Over the first week his back muscles thicken, a new layar over his shoulder blades, and despite the morning excercises, he can no longer join his fingers at the spine. He can barely reach the things, long and thin like sabres, and for some reason they aren't covered. His fingertips find new nodules at the top of the sabres, just outward. And now there's a tiny heart-shaped lump between his collar bones. He suspects those will extend as well, to branch along the muscles flanking his throat like a high collar. He suspects another layer of muscles there as well. He suspects they might meet in the middle, somewhere over his shoulders.

A secon pair of arms perhaps? He shudders. Gods, why?

On ocetday he dines at Ramkin manor as is custom since they made him godfather. Sybil serves him a helping of roast vegetables while Vimes carves the chicken, and Vetinari's hand goes to his neck in a daze of understaning.

Wishbone.

He eats slower than usual and takes two scones of clotted cream and jam for desert, so preocupied with the epiphany that he ignores young Sam.

Sybil sets her teacup down and sits up straigh on the sofa next to Vimes. "What's wrong?"

He sets the plate down and leans forward in the armchair, hand in hand. "Could Emma show young Sam the dragons?"

Sybil turns to the maid who takes the boy's hand. Picking up the tension, young Sam nodds and lets himself be led away.

Once he is out, Vimes and Sybil stare nervously.

He tells them.

They look confused so he unbuttons the shirt, tracing two barely visible lines of paler skin, like hardened scars.

The couple shares a mortified look which throws him in a panic, and it must show on his face because they're suddenly around him, Sam's hand fisting in helpless defensiveness and Sybil's on his shoulder.

He swallows. "I expect it to grow. If it behaves like the ones on my back, a new layer of muscles will cover everything. My neck will lose natural definition. I hope it ends up looking as if I have put on weight. At least from afar." He sighs.

"You've thought of this a lot," Sybil is gentle.

"It is all I could think of, in my free time."

"Which you don't have," Vimes rumbles.

He barks a laugh. "You would be surprised how long it takes to wash up while you feel at things growing over you that should not. To dress when you do not know what kind of clothes you will need next month. To eat when you do not know if you should be feeding or starving it."

Sybil strokes him through the fabric. "Is it distracting you from work?"

"Work is the distraction," his hands change places holding each other.

"Does Drumknot know?"

He shakes his head. "It is not so prominent to show through clothes."

"But you plan to tell him," Vimes demands more than questions.

A shrug. "Eventualy it will show. I want him to know before it does."

"To not worry him," from Sybil.

"So he can run interferance," from Vimes.

A nodd. His jaw tenses. "If I am right and these are wings, I am going to be a vampire stuck between forms. A demon."

Vimes frowns. "Why bat wngs?"

He scowls. "I will not be a butterfly now will I?"

"How do you know it's wings?"

"The chicken," he grimaces from the absurdity, waving vaguely from neck to dining room.

"Why not an angel then?" Sybil offers.

"Because I am not a bird?" He feels like going mad.

"This isn't natural," she points out. "if anything it's some kind o magic."

He blinks. Yes, magic. But who? And why? This requires lot of magic. And if not demon then-

Long fingers cover nose and mouth like a mask. The private joke with the falsely condemned. The drunken rant after the footbal match.

Gods.

The oldest story on the Disc. Punished for hubris. Always too clever for his own good.

He shudders.

"Havelock?" Sybil squeezes.

"My fault," he whispers. "I did this to myself."

"How?"

"I told Lipwig to think of me as an angel."

Sam and Sybil share a look above him.

"I'm sure you'll be beautifull," she smiles.

He's speechless.

"You'll get to fly," Vimes tries pragmatism.

A nodd. "That would be a worthy trade-off." A blink. "Right." He stands up between them and saunters to the back yard.

That night when Drumknott returns from his sister's, he he finds Havelock waiting by the tall windows, watching not the city but the sky. When he turns around there's a look of cautious hope on Rufus, so he invites him to the safe room, which has become their most private haven.

"What's happening?" Rufus whispers in the small room.

"What did you notice?"

"You're tense as if there's a crisis. You eat twice as much. It takes you longer to do anything private. And I think you've started to hunch. What's happening?"

Havelock begins to undress ftom the collar down, and to his relief Rufus steps forward, not back.

Pale pink finger traces the faint V on his neck. "What's this?"

"Divine punishment."

Questioning brown eyes meet hesitant blues.

"I think I am growing wings."

Rufus stares, blinks. "Show me."

Havelock spins around and lets the shirt hang from his elbows.

Rufus swallows, tracing unfamiliar muscles and bones.

Havelock's breathing is shaky.

Rufus takes off his glasses and tilts his head. "Turn around."

He does.

Drumknott's eyes wander around his head and Havelock realizes the man is imagining wings, massive ones judging by the way his eyes drift across the room. A strange expression dawns on Rufus and it takes Havelock a second of disbelief to accept it is awe. It's his turn to be awestruck, that the other man could see something noble when all he could see was something wrong. He closes the distance and kisses him, and now he can imagine them too, massive, black, condor wings, enveloping the other man to hide him form view.