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disc_festAuthor: brutti_ma_buoni/bruttimabuoni
Title: Civic Duty
Characters and/or Pairing(s): William de Worde, OCs, Vetinari
Rating: PG
Word Count (if applicable): 1800
Possible warnings and/or enticements - highlight to view (may contain spoilers): *None*
Summary: The Truth investigates fearlessly, at the gentle suggestion of Lord Vetinari. The Guild of Trumpeters, Buglers and Practitioners of the Annunciatory Arts is powerless to resist.
It was a quiet Tuesday at The Truth. Sacharissa looked at the list of what they secretly called the Desperate Filler Ideas File. Sometimes, it was helpful to have a list of things that sounded vaguely worthwhile without being in any way interesting or urgent. Quiet news days were increasing as the newspaper grew to more pages, and they'd already got down as far as number 43 in the file. The Guild of Trumpeters.
She read it out, doubtfully. "Why is there a Guild of Trumpeters? Shouldn't they be part of the Guild of Musicians?"
William pulled a face. "Have you ever heard them play? I believe if you want to play actual tunes, you have to be a Musician. The Trumpeters are more on the loud, annoying fanfare end of things. You can be both, I think.” He remembered vaguely his father’s wrath on some formal occasion when his bugler had refused to play a song for fear of infringing Guild of Musicians rules.
Thinking about that trivial but poisonous moment, William had a twinge of anxiety. Suggestions in the Filler folder tended to have been submitted by fine, upstanding citizens of Ankh Morpork. The robust sense of humour often displayed by said solid citizenry had before now had William attempting to interview a pig (“The Truth must talk to the Empress of Morporkia!”) and almost drowning in a cess-pit behind the Sunshine Home For Sick Dragons (“Lady Sybil Ramkin’s favourite hideaway”). He absolutely did not want The Truth to be a missile in some back alley war between Guilds. So he flipped through the file to find the original suggestion.
It looked fairly innocuous: Not many people are aware that arguably the oldest Guild of the city is the little-regarded Guild of Trumpeters, Buglers, and Practitioners of the Annunciatory Arts. I’m sure your readers would be fascinated to find out more. I certainly would be. Do contact Flugelhorn to find out more.
Unfortunately, it was written on the Patrician’s headed notepaper, and signed (pp) R Drumknott. Innocuous was not the word to use in those circumstances, even if the precise noxiousness of this suggestion had yet to be determined.
Did it actually count as espionage for the Patrician, if you walked up to the front door of a Guild, conducted a few interviews and published them in Ankh Morpork’s premier newspaper? William had a feeling that he still thought it did, rather. Extremely public espionage, but still…
However, there were a lot of blank pages to fill today. The weather was balmy, the crime rate low, and there hadn’t been a flower show since the previous week. Sometimes, principles are made to be bent. Slightly. Within the meaning of newspaper ethics. Whatever those were.
*
Considering that the Patrician’s interest rarely went in favour of the subject of same, the Trumpeters were surprisingly happy to talk to the Press. William gained entry to their tall, thin Guild House, halfway down Short Street, at the first try, welcomed in by a man of corresponding height and lack of girth, who introduced himself as Flugelhorn. His age was 47, William noted, carefully.
“How many guild members are there, Mr Flugelhorn?”
“Oh, many, many,” said Flugelhorn, waving expansively at the eight-foot square room they were sitting in. William estimated there might be four other such, given the size of the site, allowing space for privies and some kind of catering. There couldn’t be a lot of members. Not really. But he’d let that grandiosity pass, as his guide was explaining that he wasn’t, as such, Mister Flugelhorn, so much as possessor of the current position of Flugelhorn, a comparable title to Queen of the Beggars or Dr Whiteface. “Lost in antiquity, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said William, making skeptical notes. “Er… how old, exactly?”
“Very old.” Flugelhorn said it as though it answered all possible questions. But he was happy to enlarge on the Guild’s early years: “We broke from the College of Heralds, you know, having discovered that our ceremonial duties were not wholly compatible. But nonetheless, close links remained until the late tragic Occurrence. We’re not Musicians at all. Not a lot of people know that.”
“Um. Really?”
“We have occupied this honourable site for centuries. It was given us through the patronage of Kings.”
“Good grief. Most Guilds…”
“Most Guilds are infants, it’s true, or else newly legalized in the glorious flourishing of the Century of the Fruitbat.” William wrote that down verbatim, though his fingers almost rebelled. Who talked like that? Not to mention that the change of century seemed to have passed Flugelhorn by. “Our privileges have been repeatedly confirmed, most recently by Lord Winder.”
“Winder?”
“indeed. He was always so very kind.” Flugelhorn’s voice took on a wistful quality.
That clashed rather radically with what William had heard about Winder’s period of rule, but he supposed even the most deranged politicians have their soft spots.
Evidently, his doubts hadn’t manifested on his face. Flugelhorn was continuing his rose-coloured paean to the nuttiest Patrician of recent memory. “… and granted the site in perpetuity to our Guild, for so long as its proud story continues. So generous. Such a marvellous location.”
Ah. Something clicked in William’s brain. At last, something that might begin to explain why anyone other than Guild history enthusiasts might have wanted The Truth to pay some attention to this place. The question, of course, was what exactly Vetinari wanted to do with the site. Something efficient, no doubt, and for civic betterment. He acquitted Vetinari of having ambitions in the direction of personal gain. That would be far too human.
“Well,” he said, trying for some of that Cosy Accomplice interview technique with which Sacharissa achieved her best scoops. “It’s certainly a fascinating story our readers would like to share. Who else can I talk to? I’d like to include some profiles of Guild members, really give a rounded feel to the piece.” Find out exactly how small you are, Flugelhorn. How easy it would be to snuff out this place.
“Ah, local colour,” Fluegelhorn nodded understandingly, while his eyes darted, panic-stricken. “I understand you newspaper types are always looking for- Ah. Yes. How about Mrs Stollen? Our cook could give you an insight into the inner workings of an ancient institution.”
Wiliam nodded, noted and looked inquiringly expectant. Yep. He’s sweating already. Is he the only one left?
“Well… If you wouldn’t mind a little trip for your research, perhaps Cornet Elmer, one of our brightest young recruits.”
“Perfect. Where can I find him?” Quirm? Genua?
“At the G-g-g-uild of M-m-m-musicians.” Flugelhorn wasn’t stammering. He was choking on the words. William suddenly thought he could see the Guild's problem.
“Dual membership, hmm? Do many of your members have it?” All of them, I’d bet. Absolutely all of them. And it’s just you in this empty house, taking bookings maybe for the odd bugle call, but basically an entire Guild structure completely redundant.
“Oh, quite a few,” said Flugelhorn, airily. “You know young people, they will chase after new ideas, new fashions. The Hedgehog Cakewalk, Music with Rocks In, you name it… They liked to pick up some pocket money through musical bookings.”
He was on the verge of cracking, but William had decided whose side he was on in this. As long as Flugelhorn could keep up a reasonable façade, William could report it as truth. Which it was, in a twisted sort of way. This was a filler feature, not an investigative piece. Guild history and traditions, that was all. So he steered Flugelhorn back to safer ground, noted a couple of decent paragraphs about official titles, key dates in the Guild’s development and past Flugelhorns of distinction.
It would do. He interviewed Mrs Stollen, carefully steering clear of any questions about numbers actually served by her fine rib-sticking cooking. Cornet Elmer, despite a crop of pustular acne and a convulsive swallowing tic, turned out to talk interestingly about the duties involved in processional trumpeting. The façade held.
Next day, The Truth ran a nice little piece on page eight. Our proudest Guild. History and pride. Lots of scope for new members. Bright young lads welcome. Musical talent not required. Figgins for all members, every tea break. There was a picture of Flugelhorn, and a little box explaining the title. One could have seen through the piece, if one wanted to, but William would bet that few people would want to.
He frowned, as the masthead caught his eye. The truth shall make ye Fred.
Third time this month. He could swear the printers were doing it deliberately.
It was almost ten in the morning before a clerk dropped by with a casual invitation to take tea at the Palace. Off the record. William gulped, silently, and went. Though he did take a notebook as illusory protection. The Truth didn't do 'off the record'.
"Ah, Mr de Worde."
The Patrician sounded dry. William's throat dried in sympathy.
"Fascinating, I thought, your piece today." There was no apparent sarcasm in Vetinari's tone. "The Trumpeters have such a long history."
William nodded. No point in giving away how much he knew about the Guild. Besides, he was wildly curious about Vetinari's interest in the matter.
"I had heard rumours," said Vetinari, in no way fooling anyone in the room that he was making idle chat, "That the Guild was in decline. Members moving over to the Musicians. Splendid of you to give them a boost. No doubt the Guild is being besieged with new applicants this morning."
"I hope so, sir." William was recklessly honest. "I rather liked Flugelhorn. And it would be a shame for such an ancient Guild to die out."
"Oh quite. Quite. Civic history, most important." Although-"
Here it comes, said William's inner editor.
"I fear those positive entrepreneurs of the Grand Trunk may have to look elsewhere for their new hub tower." Vetinari sounded regretful, and William almost took him at face value. "They have been… pressing their case… very… positively, for a reassignment of the site."
Light began to dawn on William. "And you weren't inclined-"
Among men of subtlety, ending sentences is quite passé. William couldn't pretend to be subtle, honestly, but he could try to ape them. It wouldn't work if Vetinari didn't feel like talking, but he was for some reason perfectly happy to let William see his hand on this occasion.
"I was not. It's possible that the development of an unchecked monopoly among men of keen business sense has over-enthused their sense of the appropriate. Another topic that your esteemed organ might consider, for another day, perhaps."
From the Patrician, that was open provocation. William left, thoughtfully, and failed to be surprised when the Trunk's rotten core was exposed, weeks later.
brutti_ma_buoni/bruttimabuoniTitle: Civic Duty
Characters and/or Pairing(s): William de Worde, OCs, Vetinari
Rating: PG
Word Count (if applicable): 1800
Possible warnings and/or enticements - highlight to view (may contain spoilers): *None*
Summary: The Truth investigates fearlessly, at the gentle suggestion of Lord Vetinari. The Guild of Trumpeters, Buglers and Practitioners of the Annunciatory Arts is powerless to resist.
It was a quiet Tuesday at The Truth. Sacharissa looked at the list of what they secretly called the Desperate Filler Ideas File. Sometimes, it was helpful to have a list of things that sounded vaguely worthwhile without being in any way interesting or urgent. Quiet news days were increasing as the newspaper grew to more pages, and they'd already got down as far as number 43 in the file. The Guild of Trumpeters.
She read it out, doubtfully. "Why is there a Guild of Trumpeters? Shouldn't they be part of the Guild of Musicians?"
William pulled a face. "Have you ever heard them play? I believe if you want to play actual tunes, you have to be a Musician. The Trumpeters are more on the loud, annoying fanfare end of things. You can be both, I think.” He remembered vaguely his father’s wrath on some formal occasion when his bugler had refused to play a song for fear of infringing Guild of Musicians rules.
Thinking about that trivial but poisonous moment, William had a twinge of anxiety. Suggestions in the Filler folder tended to have been submitted by fine, upstanding citizens of Ankh Morpork. The robust sense of humour often displayed by said solid citizenry had before now had William attempting to interview a pig (“The Truth must talk to the Empress of Morporkia!”) and almost drowning in a cess-pit behind the Sunshine Home For Sick Dragons (“Lady Sybil Ramkin’s favourite hideaway”). He absolutely did not want The Truth to be a missile in some back alley war between Guilds. So he flipped through the file to find the original suggestion.
It looked fairly innocuous: Not many people are aware that arguably the oldest Guild of the city is the little-regarded Guild of Trumpeters, Buglers, and Practitioners of the Annunciatory Arts. I’m sure your readers would be fascinated to find out more. I certainly would be. Do contact Flugelhorn to find out more.
Unfortunately, it was written on the Patrician’s headed notepaper, and signed (pp) R Drumknott. Innocuous was not the word to use in those circumstances, even if the precise noxiousness of this suggestion had yet to be determined.
Did it actually count as espionage for the Patrician, if you walked up to the front door of a Guild, conducted a few interviews and published them in Ankh Morpork’s premier newspaper? William had a feeling that he still thought it did, rather. Extremely public espionage, but still…
However, there were a lot of blank pages to fill today. The weather was balmy, the crime rate low, and there hadn’t been a flower show since the previous week. Sometimes, principles are made to be bent. Slightly. Within the meaning of newspaper ethics. Whatever those were.
*
Considering that the Patrician’s interest rarely went in favour of the subject of same, the Trumpeters were surprisingly happy to talk to the Press. William gained entry to their tall, thin Guild House, halfway down Short Street, at the first try, welcomed in by a man of corresponding height and lack of girth, who introduced himself as Flugelhorn. His age was 47, William noted, carefully.
“How many guild members are there, Mr Flugelhorn?”
“Oh, many, many,” said Flugelhorn, waving expansively at the eight-foot square room they were sitting in. William estimated there might be four other such, given the size of the site, allowing space for privies and some kind of catering. There couldn’t be a lot of members. Not really. But he’d let that grandiosity pass, as his guide was explaining that he wasn’t, as such, Mister Flugelhorn, so much as possessor of the current position of Flugelhorn, a comparable title to Queen of the Beggars or Dr Whiteface. “Lost in antiquity, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said William, making skeptical notes. “Er… how old, exactly?”
“Very old.” Flugelhorn said it as though it answered all possible questions. But he was happy to enlarge on the Guild’s early years: “We broke from the College of Heralds, you know, having discovered that our ceremonial duties were not wholly compatible. But nonetheless, close links remained until the late tragic Occurrence. We’re not Musicians at all. Not a lot of people know that.”
“Um. Really?”
“We have occupied this honourable site for centuries. It was given us through the patronage of Kings.”
“Good grief. Most Guilds…”
“Most Guilds are infants, it’s true, or else newly legalized in the glorious flourishing of the Century of the Fruitbat.” William wrote that down verbatim, though his fingers almost rebelled. Who talked like that? Not to mention that the change of century seemed to have passed Flugelhorn by. “Our privileges have been repeatedly confirmed, most recently by Lord Winder.”
“Winder?”
“indeed. He was always so very kind.” Flugelhorn’s voice took on a wistful quality.
That clashed rather radically with what William had heard about Winder’s period of rule, but he supposed even the most deranged politicians have their soft spots.
Evidently, his doubts hadn’t manifested on his face. Flugelhorn was continuing his rose-coloured paean to the nuttiest Patrician of recent memory. “… and granted the site in perpetuity to our Guild, for so long as its proud story continues. So generous. Such a marvellous location.”
Ah. Something clicked in William’s brain. At last, something that might begin to explain why anyone other than Guild history enthusiasts might have wanted The Truth to pay some attention to this place. The question, of course, was what exactly Vetinari wanted to do with the site. Something efficient, no doubt, and for civic betterment. He acquitted Vetinari of having ambitions in the direction of personal gain. That would be far too human.
“Well,” he said, trying for some of that Cosy Accomplice interview technique with which Sacharissa achieved her best scoops. “It’s certainly a fascinating story our readers would like to share. Who else can I talk to? I’d like to include some profiles of Guild members, really give a rounded feel to the piece.” Find out exactly how small you are, Flugelhorn. How easy it would be to snuff out this place.
“Ah, local colour,” Fluegelhorn nodded understandingly, while his eyes darted, panic-stricken. “I understand you newspaper types are always looking for- Ah. Yes. How about Mrs Stollen? Our cook could give you an insight into the inner workings of an ancient institution.”
Wiliam nodded, noted and looked inquiringly expectant. Yep. He’s sweating already. Is he the only one left?
“Well… If you wouldn’t mind a little trip for your research, perhaps Cornet Elmer, one of our brightest young recruits.”
“Perfect. Where can I find him?” Quirm? Genua?
“At the G-g-g-uild of M-m-m-musicians.” Flugelhorn wasn’t stammering. He was choking on the words. William suddenly thought he could see the Guild's problem.
“Dual membership, hmm? Do many of your members have it?” All of them, I’d bet. Absolutely all of them. And it’s just you in this empty house, taking bookings maybe for the odd bugle call, but basically an entire Guild structure completely redundant.
“Oh, quite a few,” said Flugelhorn, airily. “You know young people, they will chase after new ideas, new fashions. The Hedgehog Cakewalk, Music with Rocks In, you name it… They liked to pick up some pocket money through musical bookings.”
He was on the verge of cracking, but William had decided whose side he was on in this. As long as Flugelhorn could keep up a reasonable façade, William could report it as truth. Which it was, in a twisted sort of way. This was a filler feature, not an investigative piece. Guild history and traditions, that was all. So he steered Flugelhorn back to safer ground, noted a couple of decent paragraphs about official titles, key dates in the Guild’s development and past Flugelhorns of distinction.
It would do. He interviewed Mrs Stollen, carefully steering clear of any questions about numbers actually served by her fine rib-sticking cooking. Cornet Elmer, despite a crop of pustular acne and a convulsive swallowing tic, turned out to talk interestingly about the duties involved in processional trumpeting. The façade held.
Next day, The Truth ran a nice little piece on page eight. Our proudest Guild. History and pride. Lots of scope for new members. Bright young lads welcome. Musical talent not required. Figgins for all members, every tea break. There was a picture of Flugelhorn, and a little box explaining the title. One could have seen through the piece, if one wanted to, but William would bet that few people would want to.
He frowned, as the masthead caught his eye. The truth shall make ye Fred.
Third time this month. He could swear the printers were doing it deliberately.
It was almost ten in the morning before a clerk dropped by with a casual invitation to take tea at the Palace. Off the record. William gulped, silently, and went. Though he did take a notebook as illusory protection. The Truth didn't do 'off the record'.
"Ah, Mr de Worde."
The Patrician sounded dry. William's throat dried in sympathy.
"Fascinating, I thought, your piece today." There was no apparent sarcasm in Vetinari's tone. "The Trumpeters have such a long history."
William nodded. No point in giving away how much he knew about the Guild. Besides, he was wildly curious about Vetinari's interest in the matter.
"I had heard rumours," said Vetinari, in no way fooling anyone in the room that he was making idle chat, "That the Guild was in decline. Members moving over to the Musicians. Splendid of you to give them a boost. No doubt the Guild is being besieged with new applicants this morning."
"I hope so, sir." William was recklessly honest. "I rather liked Flugelhorn. And it would be a shame for such an ancient Guild to die out."
"Oh quite. Quite. Civic history, most important." Although-"
Here it comes, said William's inner editor.
"I fear those positive entrepreneurs of the Grand Trunk may have to look elsewhere for their new hub tower." Vetinari sounded regretful, and William almost took him at face value. "They have been… pressing their case… very… positively, for a reassignment of the site."
Light began to dawn on William. "And you weren't inclined-"
Among men of subtlety, ending sentences is quite passé. William couldn't pretend to be subtle, honestly, but he could try to ape them. It wouldn't work if Vetinari didn't feel like talking, but he was for some reason perfectly happy to let William see his hand on this occasion.
"I was not. It's possible that the development of an unchecked monopoly among men of keen business sense has over-enthused their sense of the appropriate. Another topic that your esteemed organ might consider, for another day, perhaps."
From the Patrician, that was open provocation. William left, thoughtfully, and failed to be surprised when the Trunk's rotten core was exposed, weeks later.
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Date: 2011-08-01 03:45 pm (UTC)'The truth shall make ye Fred. Third time this month.' LOL.
Great ending. Vetinari always has a plan :D
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