Wonse’s mouth fell open. He dropped the remnant of his sword and backed away, clutching The Summoning.
“You’ll be sorry,” he hissed. “You’ll all be very sorry!”
He started to mumble under his breath.
Vimes felt himself trembling. He was pretty certain he knew what had zinged past his head, and the mere thought was making his hands sweat. He’d come to the palace ready to kill and there’d been this minute, just this minute, when for once the world had seemed to be operating properly and he was in charge of it and now, now all he wanted was a drink. And a nice week’s sleep.
“Oh, give up!” he said. “Are you going to come quietly?”
The mumbling went on. The air began to feel hot and dry.
Vimes shrugged. “That’s it, then,” he said, and turned away. “Throw the book at him, Carrot.”
“Right, sir.”
Vimes remembered too late.
Dwarfs have trouble with metaphors.
They also have a very good aim.
The Laws and Ordinances of Ankh and Morpork caught the secretary on the forehead. He blinked, staggered, and stepped backwards.
It was the longest step he ever took. For one thing, it lasted the rest of his life.
After several seconds they heard him hit, five storeys below.
After several more seconds their faces appeared over the edge of the ravaged floor.
“What a way to go,” said Sergeant Colon.
“That’s a fact,” said Nobby, reaching up to his ear for a dog-end.
“Killed by a wossname. A metaphor.”
“Dunno,” said Nobby. “Looks like the ground to me. Got a light, Sarge?”
“That was right, wasn’t it, sir?” said Carrot anxiously. “You said to-”
“Yes, yes,” said Vimes. “Don’t worry.” He reached down with a shaking hand, picked up the bag Wonse had been holding, and tipped out a pile of stones. Every one had a hole in it. Why? he thought.
A metallic noise behind him made him look around. The Patrician was holding the remains of the royal sword. As the captain watched, the man wrenched the other half of the sword out of the far wall. It was a clean break.
“Captain Vimes,” he said.
“Sir?”
“That sword, if you please?”
Vimes handed it over. He couldn’t, right now, think of anything else to do. He was probably due for a scorpion pit of his very own as it was.
Lord Vetinari examined the rusty blade carefully.
“How long have you had this, Captain?” he said mildly.
“Isn’t mine, sir. Belongs to Lance-constable Carrot, sir.”
“Lance-?”
“Me, sir, your graciousness,” said Carrot, saluting.
“Ah.”
The Patrician turned the blade over and over slowly, staring at it as if fascinated. Vimes felt the air thicken, as though history was clustering around this point, but for the life of him he couldn’t think why. This was one of those points where the Trousers of Time bifurcated themselves, and if you weren’t careful you’d go down the wrong leg-
…
Wonse arose in a world of shades, icy confusion pouring into his mind. But all he could think of at the moment was the tall cowled figure standing over him.
“I thought you were all dead,” he mumbled. It was strangely quiet and the colours around him seemed washed-out, muted. Something was very wrong. “Is that you, Brother Doorkeeper?” he ventured.
The figure reached out.
METAPHORICALLY, it said.
…
-and the Patrician handed the sword to Carrot.
“Very well done, young man,” he said. “Captain Vimes, I suggest you give your men the rest of the day off.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Vimes. “Okay, lads. You heard his lordship.”
“But not you, Captain. We must have a little talk.”
“Yes, sir?” said Vimes innocently.
The rank scurried out, giving Vimes sympathetic and sorrowful glances.
The Patrician walked to the edge of the floor and looked down.
“Poor Wonse,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” Vimes stared at the wall.
“I would have preferred him alive, you know.”
“Sir?”
“Misguided, yes, but a useful man. His head could have been of further use to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest, of course, we could have thrown away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was a joke, Vimes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The chap never grasped the idea of secret passages, mind you.”
“No, sir.”
“That young fellow. Carrot, you called him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keen fellow. Likes it in the Watch?”
“Yes, sir. Right at home, sir.”
“You saved my life.”
“Sir?”
“Come with me.”
He stalked away through the ruined palace, Vimes trailing behind, until he reached the Oblong Office. It was quite tidy. It had escaped most of the devastation with nothing more than a layer of dust. The Patrician sat down, and suddenly it was as if he’d never left. Vimes wondered if he ever had.
He picked up a sheaf of papers and brushed the plaster off them.
“Sad,” he said. “Lupine was such a tidy-minded man.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Patrician steepled his hands and looked at Vimes over the top of them.
“Let me give you some advice, Captain,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“It may help you make some sense of the world.”
“Sir.”
‘ ‘I believe you find life such a problem because you think there are the good people and the bad people,” said the man. “You’re wrong, of course. There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides. ”
He waved his thin hand towards the city and walked over to the window.
“A great rolling sea of evil,” he said, almost pro-prietorially. “Shallower in some places, of course, but deeper, oh, so much deeper in others. But people like you put together little rafts of rules and vaguely good intentions and say, this is the opposite, this will triumph in the end. Amazing!” He slapped Vimes good-naturedly on the back.
“Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don’t say no. I’m sorry if this offends you,” he added, patting the captain’s shoulder, “but you fellows really need us.”
“Yes, sir?” said Vimes quietly.
“Oh, yes. We’re the only ones who know how to make things work. You see, the only thing the good people are good at is overthrowing the bad people. And you’re good at that, I’ll grant you. But the trouble is that it’s the only thing you’re good at. One day it’s the ringing of the bells and the casting down of the evil tyrant, and the next it’s everyone sitting around complaining that ever since the tyrant was overthrown no-one’s been taking out the trash. Because the bad people know how to plan. It’s part of the specification,
you might say. Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don’t seem to have the knack.”
“Maybe. But you’re wrong about the rest!” said Vimes. “It’s just because people are afraid, and alone-” He paused. It sounded pretty hollow, even to him.
He shrugged. “They’re just people,” he said. “They’re just doing what people do. Sir.”
Lord Vetinari gave him a friendly smile.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “You have to believe that, I appreciate. Otherwise you’d go quite mad. Otherwise you’d think you’re standing on a feather-thin bridge over the vaults of Hell. Otherwise existence would be a dark agony and the only hope would be that there is no life after death. I quite understand.” He looked at his desk, and sighed, “And now,” he said, “there is such a lot to do. I’m afraid poor Wonse was a good servant but an inefficient master. So you may go. Have a good night’s sleep. Oh, and do bring your men in tomorrow. The city must show its gratitude.”
“It must what?” said Vimes.
The Patrician looked at a scroll. Already his voice was back to the distant tones of one who organises and plans and controls.
“Its gratitude,” he said. “After every triumphant victory there must be heroes. It is essential. Then everyone will know that everything has been done properly.”
He glanced at Vimes over the top of the scroll.
‘ ‘It’s all part of the natural order of things,” he said.
After a while he made a few pencil annotations to the paper in front of him and looked up.
“I said,” he said, “that you may go.”
Vimes paused at the door.
“Do you believe all that, sir?” he said. “About the endless evil and the sheer blackness?”
“Indeed, indeed,” said the Patrician, turning over the page. “It is the only logical conclusion.”
“But you get out of bed every morning, sir?”
“Hmm? Yes? What is your point?”
“I’d just like to know why, sir.”
“Oh, do go away, Vimes. There’s a good fellow.”