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Talk Nerdy to Me	By : Shaduan Category: A through F > Discworld Views: 4302 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Discworld, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Talk Nerdy to Me
- 1
Disclaimer: The Discworld and all related locations and characters are the property of Mr. Terry Pratchett, and I am using them here without permission or financial gain of any sort. Candy is mine, as is the idea of Drumknott getting a piece of tail. All rights reserved,
*****
Rufus Drumknott, head clerk of the Patrician's Palace, was a tall drink of water. More accurately, he was a tall drink of distilled, filtered, and above all non-Morporkian water - for everyone who had spent any time at all in Ankh-Morpork would agree that the local water had character, a trait which anyone who had met Drumknott professionally would equally agree Drumknott lacked. Incidentally, nobody has ever reported meeting him outside a professional setting. He was, after all, the Head Clerk, and he was Good at His Job. Most agreed that this professional devotion left only enough room for the social life of a piece of lint.
But the Guild of Lawyers, Clerks, and Bureaucrats had trained him well, and he had a will of iron. People had tried screaming, threats, pleading, bribery, appeals to his better nature, and even seduction to get him to bend the rules even slightly in their favor, only to be rewarded with a bland, if slightly impatient, stare, only made more intense through his wire-rimmed glasses like a lens focuses sunlight into a single white-hot point.
It was because of that last point that he was now standing before the Patrician's desk. It was, after all, audit time in Ankh-Morpork, and only the elite members of Palatial clerkdom were trusted with the often dangerous duty of auditing the guilds. Drumknott was, of course, the best of the best.
However, he was puzzled to see only a single assignment folder on the desk.
"As you know, Mr Drumknott," Vetinari said, "the time has come for auditing assignments to be passed out. Over the years you and your clerks have done a fine job of arranging them by complexity and risk, and I have handed them out accordingly. Which, of course, has left me with only one assignment remaining."
"So I see, sir," Drumknott observed, staring fixedly at the assignment folder. He had a bad feeling about that folder. He knew all the folders and files in the system intimately, and he had a sneaking suspicion that this one would be bad news.
"You know that the Guild of Seamstresses has historically been tricky to audit," Vetinari said, rather unnecessarily.
"It is my understanding that the Seamstresses are not, in fact, in the habit of concealing their assets from Palace employees," Drumknott observed.
Vetinari arched an eyebrow. "And that is the crux of the issue, Drumknott. The Seamstresses have decided that written documentation is insufficiently descriptive for the purposes of auditing. I believe they prefer free demonstrations nowadays."
Drumknott scanned his tidily arranged memory. "Didn't Thompson audit the Seamstresses last year, sir?"
"Yes, and the very next day he coverted to Omnianism and took a vow of chastity. He lives in a monastery now."
"Abernathy?"
"He asked to audit the Fools and the Assassins instead. He even said he would do them both on the same day."
Drumknott arched an eyebrow. "Matterhorn?"
"He started giggling when I suggested it, and you know how I feel about gigglers."
Drumknott did, indeed. Matterhorn would be giggling in the scorpion pit for a while.
"Let me come to the point, Drumknott. I have never known you to fear any man."
"Yes, sir."
"In fact, I believe I have you to thank for averting the attempted assassination via feral cat last week?"
"Yes, sir." The would-be assassin had tried to smuggle the cat in his pants. It was child's play to foil the attack. Not so much so to detach the cat from the man's nether regions, but that was why the city had priests.
"However," Vetinari said presently, "It seems to me that you are trying very hard to avoid this assignment."
Drumknott went rigid. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."
"I think you do. Let me ask you this... would you prefer I set a less-experienced clerk on a very complex assignment?"
The idea stung like a well-shot rubber band to the forehead. "No, sir."
"Since you value the quality of the work you oversee, naturally you would want a well-qualified clerk on such a difficult assignment, correct?"
"Of course, sir."
"And you would not settle for anything less, correct?"
"Of course not, sir."
"Then, as you are the most skilled and most trusted clerk in my employ, and this is arguably the most difficult case to be handled this year..." The Patrician picked up the assignment folder and offered it to Drumknott. "This shouldn't take more than a day."
Drumknott realized a split second too late that he'd been expertly waltzed into a corner. He took the folder and tucked it under his arm. "I have one last question, sir."
"Yes, Drumknott?"
"Will I get hazard pay, sir?"
Vetinari smiled. “No, but you will have the unique distinction of being the first Palace clerk in seven years to successfully complete an audit of the guild.”
*****
At 8:00 the next morning, he arrived at the Seamstresses’ Guild, washed, combed, shaven, and dressed in an impeccable display of impenetrable professionalism, as he was certain many clerks had done before him.
“Oh, good morning!” Mrs. Palm gushed as she flung the door wide for him, “It’s always so lovely to see one of the hard-working young men from the Palace in these parts. Business or pleasure, dear?” Mrs. Palm was still beautiful, even in her forties (though where in her forties she actually was, was anyone’s guess), and rather than giving in to the fatalistic bitterness that would usually accompany the prospect of losing one’s beauty, she still overflowed with personality (and, to a certain extent, her dress).
“I’m here to audit your guild’s books,” Drumknott stated, with all the emotion of a naked man strolling into a bar and demanding clothes, boots, and a motorcycle, before beating everyone up. Whereas this statement would likewise strike apprehension into the hearts of any who heard it, it only made a slightly unnerving smile cross Mrs. Palm’s face.
“Our guild accountant is ready whenever you are,” she purred, “I’ll just show you to the office, shall I?”
The accountant’s name was Candy, and she had brilliant red hair to match her name. The office, however, was refreshingly Spartan, and didn’t reek of the perfume used to marinate the rest of the Guildhouse. Candy was sitting on the corner of an oak desk, one knee crossed over the other, and the Guild’s financial books sat next to her, in front of a chair.
He sized her up briefly, noting that while she was in fact wearing a skirt-suit, it appeared to have been mistreated in the wash and had subsequently shrunk two sizes, so that her ample bosom threatened to spill out of the blouse and the skirt was so short that if he really wanted to, he could enjoy some fascinating scenery. The heels of her shoes were likewise far too tall and pointy to be practical for a real accountant (even the few female ones in the Guild), and if the stockings were indeed silk (as they appeared to be), they would be far outside an accountant’s budget.
It appeared that no profession was safe from the world’s oldest…
“You must be the Guild accountant,” he observed, unnecessarily, “My name is Drumknott, and I’ve been ordered by the Palace to audit this guild—I intend to do so in the most efficient way available… so no funny business, if you please.”
Candy pouted. “Sounds like somebody doesn’t want to be here,” she said, in a tone that threatened to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
He advanced on the desk and the siren perched on it and gestured to the other chair. “Have a seat,” he said, and sat in front of the ledger.
Later, he reflected that the fact that she decided to sit in the chair already occupied by Drumknott himself was completely not his fault. Immediately, however, he noticed (as one of his hands incidentally came to rest on her thigh) that her stockings did indeed seem to be made of real silk, possibly from Quirm.
“Trying the demonstrative approach to this audit?” he asked sourly.
“I might as well go in order,” she replied blithely, “You’ll notice first of all the series of business-related expenses related to clothing. Mrs. Palm’s daughters can only use the finest materials. After all, nothing feels quite like silk, not even the slippery stuff the wizards have managed to come up with.” She brushed her knee against Drumknott’s cheek, making him reflexively flinch away. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”
He cleared his throat and raised the ledger to see over her leg. “I notice the line detailing underthings seems a bit high. I was under the impression that such garments were very spare by design, especially here.”
“Well, once again we have to use specialty materials – not only silk but exotic lace from Lancre. And some of it does get damaged during everyday activities, it’s so fragile.”
A part of Drumknott’s mind that had not quite got past puberty reappeared (after remaining quite silent for ten years) and wondered what kind of activities would involve rending lacy lingerie. The possibilities it came up with would have steamed up the windows of a temple.
“Lap dances: $50 A-M,” he read, not quite aware that his hand was sliding, unbidden, up Candy’s silk-stockinged thigh.
“A perennial favorite among the gents,” Candy replied, “Most chaps who come in here get at least one of those.” Then she did something interesting with her hips that explained why. A moment later, his independently questing fingers touched a very suspicious clasp at the top of her stocking. His breath caught in his throat and, very carefully, he set down the ledger.
It was one of those Trousers moments, when a man could go down one leg of History or the other. Fate had, quite literally, dropped an Opportunity into Drumknott’s lap. In one leg, Drumknott shoved her off his lap and went back to the Palace, leaving the audit unfinished rather than succumbing to temptation, and suffering from an aching groin for the next two days.
However, Drumknott never, ever left an audit uncompleted, especially not just because it was challenging. He dealt with challenging everyday. He was quite proud of his record, and he wasn’t about to spoil it. He had a Job to Do. He dove down the other leg, deciding that his next step was to Take Control of the Situation.
“Would you consider the lap dance to be an important introductory service?” he asked, with a new edge to his voice. She glanced over to find him staring intently at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“I certainly would,” she replied, a bit surprised that he’d passed the threshold at which most of the other clerks had crumbled. She caressed the side of his throat, and felt the pulse pounding there. This was going to be interesting…
Like a master at Mutually Seated Tango, Drumknott turned Candy sharply so her back was against his chest and his arm wrapped around her midriff, just under the generous shelf of her bosom. “Now that I have your *undivided* attention…” he said quietly into her ear, “What is the average income of this Guild per week?” His thin hand slid up her thigh like a curious snake, and she let out a small whimper of surprised pleasure.
“It varies… by the season…” she gasped, as he caressed one clothed breast, pausing to trace a contemplative fingertip around the outline of her hardening nipple.
“So, is the Guild busier during the summer or the winter?” he asked, as though he was doing nothing fascinating at all, while he was actually toying with the garter-clasp at the top of her stocking. Presently he unclipped it.
“The summer – oh! – allows for better – mmm – advertising by our f-field agents…”
“Showing off available wares, I presume?” Drumknott asked, as he undid the top two buttons on her blouse. It was really academic, considering how much he could easily reach without going to the trouble, but it was the effect of the thing. He slid his hand inside her blouse and to his complete lack of surprise found no further barriers within. He lightly caressed the smooth flesh of her unguarded breast, and tweaked her erect nipple, observing how it made her jump in surprise and pleasure. Her face was flushed now, and she was breathing as though she was being chased. “Answer the question, please. I’m not here for my health, you know.”
In response, she put her hand down, as if to brace herself, and discovered the growing hardness that was developing in his lap despite all his best efforts at self-mastery (because, really, once you get past a certain point even the intellectual mind says, “Oh, bugger it all!”). He shivered and let out a small, primal noise at the sensation, and protocol fled giggling into the night with its underwear on its head.
She turned in his faltering embrace so that she knelt astride his legs in the small chair (which, it appeared, had been very well-made by the Guild of Artisans, if it could hold two people without protest), and planted such a smouldering kiss on his unprepared mouth that he was suddenly blinded by the fog on his spectacles. He took off his glasses (happy for the moment that his nearsightedness would not hinder him) and set them on the desk where they wouldn’t get broken. His questing hands slithered down her back and cupped her taut bum through the fabric of her skirt. She undid the last two buttons on her blouse, peeled it off, and tossed it away, and he was briefly mentally overwhelmed at the sight of her breasts.
A Quirmish poet had once written a poem entirely composed of metaphors describing his girlfriend’s bosoms, comparing them to rubies set in pearls, strawberries peeking out of dollops of whipped cream, and the like. Whether he sent it to her or merely scrawled it on the wall of a public lavatory, Drumknott could not recall at the moment, nor did the text say what the lucky young lady’s reaction to his ode was (though many of his classmates guessed it was violent). Now, confronted with two such examples of the topic, Drumknott could see that, given the right conditions (and, to be certain, the right pair of breasts), the poet in question was easily justified in his fixation (even if publication meant he never got to see that part of her ever again). Drumknott’s less-poetic mind immediately drew its own parallel to a Lancrastian dessert known as strawberry wobbler (which he had heard lots about but never had the courage to try).
He leaned forward and flicked at one of her erect nipples with his tongue, and when he was rewarded with a soft moan from Candy he grew bold and took the coffee-coloured areola into his mouth while he rolled the other nipple between his fingers. She let out a small cry, and a feeling of dampness where she rested on his legs suggested further interesting goings-on in that region as well. She reached up and started addressing the buttons of his shirt (completely ignoring the pocket protector he’d worn as a talisman against seduction – for all the good it did him now), while he reflected that she had exactly the right idea – it was getting far too warm in this office. He had endured baking summers and freezing winters in offices where the climate control had gone weird, but right now…
As he felt her tug his braces off his shoulders – the better to remove his shirt – he reached a curious finger under her skirt (which was already hiked up from straddling him) and teased at the silky fabric between her legs, which was already soaked with her feminine juices. She whimpered at the sensation and tugged at his half-open shirt, causing a button to fly off, ricochet off the ceiling, and rebound off the lamp with a metallic *ping*. He groaned in dismay, knowing that if he returned the Palace with a ruined shirt there would be questions he didn’t want to have to answer. Not from Vetinari, of course – the Patrician was the very soul of discretion – but from the other clerks who doubtless knew of that day’s assignment and might look for a reason to rib him about it.
“Don’t worry,” Candy whispered huskily, “We’re Seamstresses, remember? We know how to sew on a couple of buttons if we need to.”
He could have kissed her – so he did. While their mouths were locked together he picked her up around the hips, and stood up just long enough to lay her across the desk. Now, with her skirt hiked up to her waist, he put his glasses back on so he could see exactly what he was about to deal with. Her knickers were little more than a stingy triangle of red fabric held on with a couple of rubber bands, including one up the back that looked horribly uncomfortable. It was like giving yourself a wedgie on purpose. He unclipped the rest of her garters, an operation that made her squirm with anticipation – but instead of sliding off her stockings (which he ultimately had decided he rather enjoyed), he hooked a fingertip under the fabric of her knickers and pushed them aside to reveal her swollen, eager sex. He bit his lip.
When he was fifteen, one of his dorm-mates had once smuggled in an exotic tome from the Agatean Empire – the sort that came with some rather fascinating woodcuts. The text was a bit obscure however, never referring to anything directly but talking about things like inserting Jade Dragon Columns into Golden Honey Lotuses. After a very educational evening, young Drumknott had been left with some confused ideas about flower arrangement and very few clues about sex.
Now, however, he made the necessary connections – he’d always been more the visual sort, and he could easily see that up to now he was proceeding correctly. He pushed the chair out of the way and bent over her, flicking his tongue across the pulsing bud of her golden honey lotus. It didn’t taste much like honey (proving the Agateans were big fat liars on that front), but the gesture loosed a cry from her that he was certain could be heard at least in the next room. At this point he was beyond caring. He slid two slender fingers into her, feeling her contract around them as she moaned breathlessly. He slid them in and out experimentally, noting how her hips bucked in a way that was making his own groin ache with need. He didn’t even need to look down to see how tight the front of his pants was getting, and he knew if he didn’t do something about it soon the Seamstresses might need to use some spot-remover in addition to reattaching the errant button.
“Left-hand drawer,” she gasped out, and he looked up, puzzled, pausing in his ministrations.
Trembling, she propped herself on her elbows. “If you’re going to go any further than this… I’ll have to insist.”
He opened the indicated drawer with his free hand and glanced inside, seeing at once what she meant: a small package of sonkies. He hesitated at her invitation.
“You should feel proud,” she said with a smile, “You’re the first one who’s gotten this far.”
He flushed slightly, swelling with pride (in a manner of speaking) and, thusly reassured, curled his fingers inside her in a way that put her beyond words again. He took out the package of sonkies and prepared to complete the audit.
*****
It was three in the afternoon when Drumknott returned to the Palace, file folder in hand. His shirt had been repaired expertly, and nobody who saw him would have any clue of the events of that day, and he offered none – especially not to his fellow clerks. All *they* knew was that he had gone into the Seamstresses’ Guild and returned unscathed, which was enough of a bragging point.
He rapped sharply at the door to the Oblong Office.
“Enter,” Vetinari said, and Drumknott did so.
He saw that Vetinari was in the middle of perusing a letter written on pink parchment. Drumknott wasn’t sure of the content, but it was an even bet that it came from the Guild of Seamstresses. He waited patiently until Vetinari had finished reading. The Patrician arched an inquisitive eyebrow towards the end but said nothing as to why.
“Mr. Drumknott,” he finally said, “I see that you have returned from the lion’s den.”
“Yes, sir,” Drumknott replied, “It was a bit of a challenge to balance to books, but their Guild accountant was very capable.”
“Candace, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure she was in very capable hands during the audit.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, in this day and age it’s quite a relief to see a clerk such as yourself rise to the challenge of a reportedly sticky audit and come out on top in the end. I’m certain you laid bare the facts and figures in no time at all and felt out the truth from the lies where previous clerks had merely groped aimlessly, and finally thrust to the heart of the matter—Mr. Drumknott, you’ve gone quite pink all of a sudden.”
Drumknott cleared his throat. “Have I, sir?”
Vetinari tilted his head. “It’s probably the lighting,” he concluded, to Drumknott’s relief, “In any case, after seeing your work Mrs. Palm has decided that keeping the books tidy on a more regular basis will help in the long run. Would you be available to come by around this time next month to check up on things?”
“Well, sir…”
“Apparently they were very impressed – they requested you by name.”
Drumknott dared a small smile of professional pride. “I believe I can clear a space on my schedule, sir.”
“Good. I’m sure Mrs. Palm and Candace will be happy to receive you.”
Drumknott clicked his heels together and practically floated out of Vetinari’s office, though he managed to get back to his quarters before erupting in a victory dance.
Meanwhile, Vetinari reread the note from Mrs. Palm. She had indeed requested Drumknott by name – but she’d referred to him as “Rufus”.
- 1
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