Yn Faire Morporkia Where We Lae Our Syne

"No, the bed in the guest room's yours if you want it, that's what I meant about keeping the furnishings. If you're as tired as I am, it'd be a crime to send you out right now anyway. Go on, make yourself at home." You pat him toward his room, setting the cups in the washtub on the way. You don't like to leave yourself dishes to do in the morning, but right now you doubt you could keep your eyes open long enough to wash them.

 

"Right, right. Much obliged. Let me just—" you snap your fingers firmly at Mr Makwaa's jumper, and your last bat crawls reluctantly over his shoulder and flutters back to you. "Thanks..."

With a final yawn— or two— you shuffle into what's apparently your room now, flop onto the remarkably comfortable bed, and fall asleep immediately.

*

You wake shortly after dawn, from long habit. You always liked to ride out early. There's no horses to saddle up or smews to jess or staff to send bustling around, but there's at least a kitchen to go investigate. If Makwaa isn't already up, perhaps you could make yourself useful.

 

You're in the bathroom shaving when you hear your new flatmate moving around. Though your instinct is to hurry out and keep tabs on him, you stifle it. Let him get used to the place in peace. Worst that happens is he breaks a dish or spills something. You take your time and do a good job, though you don't do your head -- you don't shave that every day anyway, you kind of like the short fuzz -- and clean your teeth before going out to greet him in your pyjama bottoms and much-mended oldest jumper.

He's wearing the same clothes as yesterday, of course, and looks adorably rumpled. He's just setting the spoon from last night's drinks on the drying board -- he's washed it, the pan, and the cups, apparently without recourse to hot water, even though you put the kettle on first thing. Still, sahlab isn't the kind of thing that leaves a greasy film, and he looks so proud of himself, you're not about to give him a hard time. You smile your thanks and deliberately take those cups to make tea for the both of you.

 

You smile back, suddenly shy, and take your place at the kitchen table to wait for him and your tea.

"So, er." You smooth your cuffs back down. "What's the plan?"

 

"Mm, what kind of day is it?" When he tugs aside the curtain to inform you that the sky out the kitchen window is clear, you propose, "Let's get some pastries on the way for breakfast. How much stuff do you have? Can we do the groceries in the same trip, or will we have to come back and drop it off first?"

 

"Just a change of clothes and a few books," you say. "I haven't been here long."

 

"Okay then, groceries on the way back, and I can maybe introduce you to some of the neighbors." You give him his tea and sit down with yours. "Do you have any debuggings lined up for tonight?"

 

"Debugging. Ha! I like that. No, no, you're my first... client. I'll work on getting more, though. This is the kind of neighborhood that needs the help." You look up from your tea, abashed. "Not that your shop isn't perfectly lovely!"

 

You pantomime pearl-clutching. "How dare you! Everyone knows silverfish are a moral judgement!"

 

"It means the god of silverfish thinks your shop is perfectly lovely," you tell him, with pious sincerity.

 

"Mister Aspera..." You lean conspiratorially toward him. "Are you the god of silverfish?"

 

"Just a faithful adherent, Mr Makwaa," you say, and sip your tea.

 

"You know," you point out in a less joking tone, "according to something I once read, this conversation means there's now a god of silverfish kind of... in potentia. If we were to put up a shrine in the shop, and people were to ask about it, sooner or later... I would annoy my actual gods, probably," you realize. "Well, Offler isn't the jealous type, but Seven-Handed Sek gets cranky, and a craftsman needs all the hands he can get!"

 

"You do have a few less hands to lose," you agree. You help yourself to another cup.

"Is it blasphemous to be completely unfamiliar with the local gods, because they used to be irrelevantly foreign gods, and you haven't had time to go round all the temples and introduce yourself?" you wonder. "I was taught a few languages, not comparative theology."

 

"Pfft, nah. There's so many of 'em. What languages?"

 

"Oh, pretty much just the standard set. Besides high and low Uberwaldian— er—" you tick on your fingers, "The local Dwarvish, Kythian and Genuan— they were our neighbors— and it turns out Morporkian is just about the same thing as Genuan but with a silly accent. And a bit of the Rehigreed they speak on the Orohai Peninsula, it's a dialect, but they're interested in importing oldgrowth timber, so dad— I mean, my father— insisted on it. I was starting to take on more of the land and trade management before, er, before... this."

You look at your cold, pale hands. "I was in my early twenties, I think. I suppose I still might be. I don't actually know how much time I've lost."

 

"Lost?" you prompt gently. You put a hand on his arm: "You don't have to tell me. But you can if you want. It sounds kinda upsetting."

 

"Oh, well. I-it's not a secret, I mean, I don't intend to come off all-- mysterious. As some do."

You grimace, take a steadying breath, and say: "I was out hunting and I met a beautiful woman, and she was badly hurt, so I treated her, and she was hungry so I fed her, and she was still hungry so took her home and fed her there. And she was the most kind and intelligent and wonderful woman I'd ever met and I was in love and we were going to be married.

"Then men from the town came with fire, and iron, and I didn't recognize any of them, and they cut her up and burned her, and I realized how I was now wasn't right, and all the things we'd done together weren't right. Everyone was dead. My father... When the men came after me to finish it I just sort of came apart. I don't know how long I was like that, or how long I wandered around after I came back together. I was somewhere in Borogravia. Everyone there was talking about here, moving here, the vampires too. You can make a new life...

"So." You shrug, try to smile. "Here I am. I'm sorry if all that was a bit maudlin."

 

It's that game attempt at a smile that punches you in the heart. "Fuck, that's horrible. But here you are, making a new life. That's not nothing."

 

Your smile becomes a good deal more sincere. "As you say. And so far the company's rather pleasant. Shall we go fetch your pastry?"