‘He is a very unpleasant, jumped-up little man,’ said Lady Selachii, ‘but I would not say he actually terrorizes much. Not as such.’
‘You have to hand it to him,’ said Viscount Skater, ‘the city operates. More or less. Fellas and whatnot do things.’
‘The streets are safer than they used to be under Mad Lord Snapcase,’ said Lady Selachii.
‘Sa-fer? Vetinari set up the Thieves’ Guild!’ shouted Edward.
‘Yes, yes, of course, very reprehensible, certainly. On the other hand, a modest annual payment and one walks in safety . . .’
‘He always says,’ said Lord Rust, ‘that if you’re going to have crime, it might as well be organized crime.’
‘Seems to me,’ said Viscount Skater, ‘that all the Guild chappies put up with him because anyone else would be worse, yes? We’ve certainly had some . . . difficult ones. Anyone remember Homicidal Lord Winder?’
‘Deranged Lord Harmoni,’ said Lord Monflathers.
‘Laughing Lord Scapula,’ said Lady Selachii. ‘A man with a very pointed sense of humour.’
‘Mind you, Vetinari . . . there’s something not entirely . . .’ Lord Rust began.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Viscount Skater. ‘I don’t like the way he always knows what you’re thinking before you think it.’
‘Everyone knows the Assassins have set his fee at a million dollars,’ said Lady Selachii. ‘That’s how much it would cost to have him killed.’
‘One can’t help feeling,’ said Lord Rust, ‘that it would cost a lot more than that to make sure he stayed dead.’
‘Ye gods! What happened to pride? What happened to honour?’
They perceptibly jumped as the last Lord d’Eath thrust himself out of his chair.
‘Will you listen to yourselves? Please? Look at you. What man among you has not seen his family name degraded since the days of the kings? Can’t you remember the men your forefathers were?’ He strode rapidly around the table, so that they had to turn to watch him. He pointed an angry finger.
‘You, Lord Rust! Your ancestor was cr-eated a Baron after single-handedly killing thirty-seven Klatchians while armed with nothing more than a p-in, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You, sir . . . Lord Monflathers! The first Duke led six hundred men to a glorious and epic de-feat at the Battle of Quirm! Does that mean n-othing? And you, Lord Venturii, and you, Sir George . . . sitting in Ankh in your old houses with your old names and your old money, while Guilds – Guilds] Ragtags of tradesmen and merchants! – Guilds, I say, have a voice in the r-unning of the city!’
He reached a bookshelf in two strides and threw a huge leather-bound book on the table, where it upset Lord Rust’s glass.
‘Twurp’s P-eerage,’ he shouted. ‘We all have pages in there! We own it. But this man has you mesmerized! I assure you he is flesh and blood, a mere mortal! No-one dares remove him because they th-ink it will make things a little worse for themselves! Ye g-ods!’
His audience looked glum. It was all true, of course. . . if you put it that way. And it didn’t sound any better coming from a wild-eyed, pompous young man.
‘Yes, yes, the good old days. Towerin’ spires and pennants and chivalry and all that,’ said Viscount Skater. ‘Ladies in pointy hats. Chappies in armour bashin’ one another and whatnot. But, y’know, we have to move with the times—’
‘It was a golden age,’ said Edward.
My god, thought Lord Rust. He actually does believe it.
‘You see, dear boy,’ said Lady Selachii, ‘a few chance likenesses and a piece of jewellery – that doesn’t really add up to much, does it?’
‘My nurse told me,’ said Viscount Skater, ‘that a true king could pull a sword from a stone.’
‘Hah, yes, and cure dandruff,’ said Lord Rust. ‘That’s just a legend. That’s not real Anyway, I’ve always been a bit puzzled about that story. What’s so hard about pulling a sword out of a stone? The real work’s already been done. You ought to make yourself useful and find the man who put the sword in the stone in the first place, eh?’
There was a sort of relieved laughter. That’s what Edward remembered. It all ended up in laughter. Not exactly at him, but he was the type of person who always takes laughter personally.
Ten minutes later, Edward d’Eath was alone.
They’re being so nice about it. Moving with the times! He’d expected more than that of them. A lot more. He’d dared to hope that they might be inspired by his lead. He’d pictured himself at the head of an army —
Blenkin came in at a respectful shuffle.
‘I saw ’em all off, Mr Edward,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Blenkin. You may clear the table.’
‘Yes, Mr Edward.’
‘Whatever happened to honour, Blenkin?’
‘Dunno, sir. I never took it.’
‘They didn’t want to listen.’
‘No, sir.’
‘They didn’t want to l-isten.’
Edward sat by the dying fire, with a dog-eared copy of Thighbiter’s The Ankh-Morpork Succesfion open on his lap. Dead kings and queens looked at him reproachfully.
And there it might have ended. In fact it did end there, in millions of universes. Edward d’Eath grew older and obsession turned to a sort of bookish insanity of the gloves-with-the-fingers-cut-out and carpet slippers variety, and became an expert on royalty although no-one ever knew this because he seldom left his rooms. Corporal Carrot became Sergeant Carrot and, in the fullness of time, died in uniform aged seventy in an unlikely accident involving an anteater.
In a million universes, Lance-Constables Cuddy and Detritus didn’t fall through the hole. In a million universes, Vimes didn’t find the pipes. (In one strange but theoretically possible universe the Watch House was redecorated in pastel colours by a freak whirlwind, which also repaired the door latch and did a few other odd jobs around the place.) In a million universes, the Watch failed. -In a million universes, this was a very short book.
Edward dozed off with the book on his knees and had a dream. He dreamed of glorious struggle. Glorious was another important word in his personal vocabulary, like honour.
If traitors and dishonourable men would not see the truth then he, Edward d’Eath, was the finger of Destiny.
The problem with Destiny, of course, is that she is often not careful where she puts her finger.
Captain Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat in the draughty anteroom to the Patrician’s audience chamber with his best cloak on and his breastplate polished and his helmet on his knees.
He stared woodenly at the wall.
He ought to be happy, he told himself. And he was. In a way. Definitely. Happy as anything.
He was going to get married in a few days.
He was going to stop being a guard.
He was going to be a gentleman of leisure.
He took off his copper badge and buffed it absent-mindedly on the edge of his cloak. Then he held it up so that the light glinted off the patina’d surface. AMCW No.177. He sometimes wondered how many other guards had had the badge before him.
Well, now someone was going to have it after him.
This is Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousand Surprises (according to the Guild of Merchants’ guidebook). What more need be said? A sprawling place, home to a million people, greatest of cities on the Discworld, located on either side of the river Ankh, a waterway so muddy that it looks as if it is flowing upside down.
And visitors say: how does such a big city exist? What keeps it going? Since it’s got a river you can chew, where does the drinking water come from? What is, in fact, the basis of its civic economy? How come it, against all probability, works?
Actually, visitors don’t often say this. They usually say things like ‘Which way to the, you know, the . . . er . . . you know, the young ladies, right?’
But if they started thinking with their brains for a little while, that’s what they’d be thinking.
The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat back on his austere chair with the sudden bright smile of a very busy person at the end of a crowded day who’s suddenly found in his schedule a reminder saying: 7.00-7.05, Be Cheerful and Relaxed and a People Person.
‘Well, of course I was very saddened to receive your letter, captain . . .’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Vimes, still as wooden as a furniture warehouse.
‘Please sit down, captain.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Vimes remained standing. It was a matter of pride.
‘But of course I quite understand. The Ramkin country estates are very extensive, I believe. I’m sure Lady Ramkin will appreciate your strong right hand.’
‘Sir?’ Captain Vimes, while in the presence of the ruler of the city, always concentrated his gaze on a point one foot above and six inches to the left of the man’s head.