Jingo

The Prince straightened up, looking pleased.

“Well done, Sir Samuel. You're good at this. Do you know, Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild was prepared to accept fifteen?”

“For Mrs Boos?” Vimes waggled a hand dismissively. “Nah… four camels, maybe four camels and a goat in a good light. And when she's had a shave.”

The milling guests turned at the sound of the Prince's explosion of laughter.

“Very good! Very good! I am afraid, commander, that some of your fellow citizens feel that just because my people invented advanced mathematics and allday camping we are complete barbarians who'd try to buy their wives at the drop of, shall we say, a turban. I am surprised they're giving me an honorary degree, considering how incredibly backward I am.”

“Oh? What degree is that?” said Vimes. No wonder this man was a diplomat. You couldn't trust him an inch, he thought in loops, and you couldn't help liking him despite it.

The Prince pulled a letter out of his robe.

“Apparently it's a Doctorum Adamus cum Flabello Dulci— Is there something wrong, Sir Samuel?”

Vimes managed to turn the treacherous laugh into a coughing fit. “No, no, nothing,” he said. “No.”

He desperately wanted to change the subject. And fortunately there was something here to provide just the opportunity.

“Why has Mr Ahmed got such a big curved sword slung on his back?” he said.

“Ah, you are a policeman, you notice such things—”

“It's hardly a concealed weapon, is it? It's nearly bigger than him. He's practically a concealed owner!”

“It's ceremonial,” said the Prince. “And he does fret so if he has to leave it behind.”

“And what exactly is his—”

“Ah, there you are,” said Ridcully. “I think we're just about ready. You know you go right at the front, Sam —”

“Yes, I know,” said Vimes. “I was just asking His Highness what—”

“—and if you, Your Highness, and you, Mr… my word, what a big sword, and you come back here and take your place among the honoured guests, and we'll be ready in a brace of sheikhs…”

What a thing it is to have a copper's mind, Vimes thought, as the great file of wizards and guests tried to form a dignified and orderly line behind him. Just because someone makes himself pleasant and likeable you start to be suspicious of him, for no other reason than the fact that anyone who goes out of their way to be nice to a copper has got something on their mind. Of course, he's a diplomat, but still… I just hope he never studied ancient languages, and that's a fact.

Someone tapped Vimes on the shoulder. He turned and looked right into the grin of 71-hour Ahmed.

“If hyou changing your mind, offendi, I give hyou twenty-five camels, no problem,” he said, pulling a clove from his teeth. “May your hloins be full of fruit.”

He winked. It was the most suggestive gesture Vimes had ever seen. “Is this another—” he began, but the man had vanished into the crowd.

“My loins be full of fruit?” he repeated to himself. “Good grief!”

71-hour Ahmed reappeared at his other elbow in a gust of cloves. “I go, I hcome back,”^{25} he growled happily. “The Prince hsays the degree is Doctor of Sweet Fanny Adams.^{26} A hwizard wheeze, yes? Oh, how we are laughing.”

And then he was gone.

The Convivium was Unseen University's Big Day.^{27} Originally it had just been the degree ceremony, but over the years it had developed into a kind of celebration of the amicable relationship between the University and the city, in particular celebrating the fact that people were hardly ever turned to clams any more. In the absence of anything resembling a Lord Mayor's Show or a state opening of Parliament, it was one of the few formal opportunities the citizens had of jeering at their social superiors, or at least at people wearing tights and ridiculous costumes.

It had grown so big that it was now held in the city's Opera House. Distrustful people — that is to say, people like Vimes — considered that this was so there could be a procession. There was nothing like the massed ranks of wizardry walking sedately through the city in a spirit of civic amicability to subtly remind the more thoughtful kind of person that it hadn't always been this way. Look at us, the wizards seemed to be saying. We used to rule this city. Look at our big staffs with the knobs on the end. Any one of these could do some very serious damage in the wrong hands so it's a good thing, isn't it, that they're in the right hands at the moment? Isn't it nice that we all get along so well?

And someone, once, had decided that the Commander of the Watch should walk in front, for symbolic reasons. That hadn't mattered for years because there hadn't been a Commander of the Watch, but now there was, and he was Sam Vimes. In a red shirt with silly baggy sleeves, red tights, some kind of puffed shorts in a style that went out of fashion, by the lock of it, at the time when flint was at the cutting edge of cutting-edge technology, a tiny shiny breastplate and a helmet with feathers in it.

And he really did need some sleep.

And he had to carry the truncheon.

He kept his eyes fixed on the damn thing as he walked out of the University's main gate. Last night's rain had cleaned the sky. The city steamed.

If he stared at the truncheon he didn't have to see who was giggling at him.

The downside was that he had to keep staring at the thing.

It said, on a little tarnished shield that he'd had to clean before reading it, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece.

That had brightened the occasion slightly.

Feathers and antiques, gold braid and fur…

Perhaps it was because he was tired, or just because he was trying to shut out the world, but Vimes found himself slowing down into the traditional watchman's walk and the traditional idling thought process.

It was an almost Pavlovian response.4  ^{28} The legs swung, the feet moved, the mind began to work in a certain way. It wasn't a dream state, exactly. It was just that the ears, nose and eyeballs wired themselves straight into the ancient “suspicious bastard” node of his brain, leaving his higher brain centre free to freewheel.

…Fur and tights… what kind of wear was that for a watchman? Bashed-in armour, greasy leather breeches and a tatty shirt with bloodstains on it, someone else's for preference… that was the stuff… nice feel of the cobbles through his boots, it was really comforting…

Behind him, confusion running up and down the ranks, the procession slowed down to keep in step.

…Hah, Protecter of thee Kinge's Piece indeed… he'd said to the old man who'd delivered it, “Which piece did you have in mind?” but that had fallen on stony ears… damn silly thing anyway, he'd thought, a short length of wood with a lump of silver on the end… even a constable got a decent sword, what was he supposed to do, wave it at people?… ye gods, it was months since he'd had a good walk through the streets… lot of people about today… some parade on, wasn't there…?

“Oh dear,” said Captain Carrot, in the crowd. “What's he doing?”

Next to him an Agatean tourist was industriously pulling the lever of his iconograph.

Commander Vimes stopped and, with a faraway look in his eyes, tucked his truncheon under one arm and reached up to his helmet.

The tourist locked up at Carrot and tugged his shirt politely.

“Please, what is he doing now?” he said.

“Er… he's… he's taking out…”

“Oh, no…” said Angua.