Jingo

“Oh, never mind.” Vimes yawned. “Well, we shall miss you, Willikins.” Others may not, he thought. Especially if they have time for a second shot.

“Oh, Lord Venturi says it'll all be over by Hogswatch, sir.”^{24}

“Really? I didn't know it had started.”

Vimes ran down the stairs and into a smell of curry.

“We saved you some, sir,” said Sergeant Colon. “You was asleep when the lad brought it round.”

“It was Goriff's kid,” said Nobby, chasing a bit of rice around his tin plate. “Enough for half the shift.”

“The rewards of duty,” said Vimes, hurrying towards the door.

“Bread and mango pickle and everything,” said Colon happily. “I've always said old Goriff isn't that bad for a rag'ead.”

A pool of sizzling oil… Vimes stopped at the door. The family, huddling together… He took out his watch. It was twenty past ten. If he ran—

“Fred, could you just step up to my office?” he said. “It won't take a moment.”

“Right, sir.”

Vimes ushered the sergeant up the stairs and closed the door.

Nobby and the other watchmen strained to listen, but there was no sound except for a low murmuring which went on for some time.

The door opened again. Vimes came down the stairs.

“Nobby, come up to the University in five minutes, will you? I want to stay in touch and I'm damned if I'm taking a pigeon with this uniform on.”

“Right, sir.”

Vimes left.

A few moments later Sergeant Colon walked carefully down to the main office. He had a slightly glassy look and walked back to his desk with the nonchalance that only the extremely worried try to achieve. He toyed with some paper for a while and then said:

“You don't mind what people call you, do you, Nobby?”

“I'd be minding the whole time if I minded that, sarge,” said Corporal Nobbs cheerfully.

“Right. Right! And I don't mind what people call me, neither.” Colon scratched his head. “Don't make sense, really. I reckon Sir Sam is missing too much sleep.”

“He's a very busy man, Fred.”

“Trying to do everything, that's his trouble. And… Nobby?”

“Yes?”

“It's Sergeant Colon, thanks.”

There was sherry. There was always sherry at these occasions. Seam Vimes could regard it dispassionately, since he always drank fruit juice these days. He'd heard they made sherry by letting wine go rotten He couldn't see the point of sherry.

“And you will try to look dignified, won't you?” said Lady Sybil, adjusting his cloak.

“Yes, dear.”

“What will you try to look?”

“Dignified, dear.”

“And please try to be diplomatic.”

“Yes, dear.”

“What will you try to be?”

“Diplomatic, dear.”

“You're using your ‘henpecked’ voice, Sam.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You know that's not fair.”

“No, dear.” Vimes raised a hand in a theatrical gesture of submission. “All right, all right. It's just these feathers. And these tights,” He winced and tried to do some surreptitious rearranging in an effort to prevent himself becoming the city's first hunchgroin. “I mean, supposing people see me?”

“Of course they'll see you, Sam. You're leading the procession. And I'm very proud of you.”

She brushed some lint off his shoulder.2

Feathers in my hat, Vimes thought glumly. And fancy tights. And a shiny breastplate. A breastplate shouldn't be shiny. It should be too denied to take a decent polish. And diplomatic talk? How should I know how to talk diplomatically?

“And now I must go and have a word with Lady Selachii,” said Lady Sybil. “You'll be all right, will you? You keep yawning.”

“Of course. Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all.”

“You promise not to run away?”

“Me? I never run—”

“You ran away before the big soiree for the Genuan ambassador. Everyone saw you.”

“I'd just got news that the De Bris gang were robbing Vortin's strongroom!”

“But you don't have to chase everyone, Sam. You employ people for that now.”

“We got 'em, though,” said Vimes, with satisfaction.

He'd enjoyed it immensely, too. It wasn't just the pursuit that was so invigorating, with his velvet cloak left behind on a tree and his hat in a puddle somewhere, it was the knowledge that while he was doing this he wasn't eating very small sandwiches and making even smaller talk. It wasn't proper police work, Vimes considered, unless you were doing something that someone somewhere would much rather you weren't doing.

When Sybil had disappeared into the crowd he found a handy shadow and lurked in it. It enabled him to see almost the whole of the University's Great Hall.

He quite liked the wizards. They didn't commit crimes. Not Vimes's type of crimes, anyway. The occult wasn't Vimes's beat. The wizards might well mess up the very fabric of time and space but they didn't lead to paperwork, and that was fine by Vimes. There were a lot of them in the hall, in all their glory. And there was nothing finer than a wizard dressed up formally, until someone could find a way of inflating a Bird of Paradise, possibly by using an elastic band and some kind of gas. But the wizards were getting a run for their money, because the rest of the guests were either nobles or guild leaders or both, and an occasion like the Convivium brought out the peacock in everyone.

His gaze went from face to chatting face, and he wondered idly what each person was guilty of.3

Quite a few of the ambassadors were there, too. They were easy to pick out. They wore their national costumes, but since by and large their national costumes were what the average peasant wore they looked slightly out of place in them. Their bodies wore feathers and silks, but their minds persistently wore suits.

They chatted in small groups. One or two nodded and smiled to him as they passed.

The world is watching, Vimes thought. If something went wrong and this stupid Leshp business started a war, it's men like these who'd be working out exactly how to deal with the winner, whoever it was. Never mind who started it, never mind how it was fought, they'd want to know how to deal with things now. They represented what people called the “international community”. And like all uses of the world “community”, you were never quite sure what or who it was.

He shrugged. It wasn't his world, thank goodness.

He sidled over to Corporal Nobbs, who was standing by the main doors in the sort of lopsided slouch which was the closest a living Nobbs could come to attention.

“All quiet, Nobby?” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yessir.”