Several other clerks and I have spent all morning searching, but to no avail. What we have found out of place totals as follows: a book on written grammar, several blank sheets of paper which probably at one point served as place-holders, a hairpin, and the journal of a clerk who served under Lord Winder. I have read a few entries and come to the conclusion that it obviously wasn't just the Patrician who was mad. Every page is crammed from edge to edge with ravings over the nature of Lord Winder's gloves and what it means to be free. One entry stood out to me, however, and I transcribe the first half of it here verbatim:
He is calling for me but I will not goIwill stay here
HERE where he cannot find me (He refuses to come in this room because he fears that there are spies hiding behind the shelves and Assassins lurking in the bins, ha, little does he know that there is one, one who has countless times killed him killed him killed him but only thought it wrote it, was never brave enough to make it so
You know he makes me put on his gloves first before he'll put them on himself? afraid that they've put poisonous needles in the fingers FOOL if I were to kill him I wouldn't poison I would want to see his face want to see the blood want to watch him...
I will not go he is calling but I will not go
This is freedom, in these pages I may kill him however many times I like here and never face the consequences(hewill not find this he is afraid afraid to come in). And the more times I write it here it will eventually happen IT WILL! words have power IT WILL!
I know exactly how it will happenI have a plan HEWILL DIE. He must die. He must , I will kill him,
Everyone wants him dead you know it's only a matter of time until the assassins get smarter than he is only a matter of time before he slips slipslipsssss
And when that happens I'll know that I killed him, I KILLED HIM, because I will write here every day everyday kill kill kill.and it will become truth
If you think it often enough it might just happen, if you write it it will heismine.
The second half is almost entirely illegible - that is to say, moreso than the first.
Despite the rather... frantic nature of his writing, something in that entry struck a chord with me.
It's not that I want to kill my Lord, not at all; in fact I bear no ill will toward him whatsoever. But it's true that sometimes I wonder if I couldn't do better than that, if it shouldn't be me sitting at his desk, running his city... But that's not it either. Why be the man in power when you can be the man behind the power? (Technically, that's where I am now, but Lord Vetinari doesn't listen, not as much as he should.)
The fact remains that I am a man with goals, with ambitions. I come from admittedly humble origins, but I was raised to reach for the stars. What I need is to create in my mind the ladder I must climb to reach those stars, to follow until I can just stretch out my hand and pluck that prize from its celestial branch. (Sound effects at that point would be optimal. Nothing fancy, mind. Something simple would do, like pling, or glick.)
Ladder-building. Yes, that is what I need. That is what this journal is for: to solidify The Goal in my mind, to allow me to occasionally take a step back, so that I may see where the sum of my efforts is taking me. I don't believe that just writing something often enough will make it happen (words have power, but not that much power. That clerk was obviously a fool - if you want someone dead, you can't just talk about it. Whoever heard of anyone being killed by words?), but it will keep me focused. It's easy to be caught up in the little things, the path rather than the goal. It's easy to forget the destination. I will not let that happen to me.
Finally, I realize that I am taking advice from a madman's diary. However, even a pile of rubbish can yield jewels. One merely has to have enough experience to pick out the precious stones from the glittering rocks. That is all.