Jingo

“Dead and buried,” said Mr Slant.

“I paid mine,” said Vimes.

“So let me recap, then,” said Vetinari. “I don't think anyone wants to see two grown nations scrapping over a piece of rock. We don't want to fight, but—”

“By jingo, if we do, we'll show those—” Lord Selachii began.

“We have no ships. We have no men. We have no money, too,” said Lord Vetinari. “Of course, we have the art of diplomacy. It is amazing what you can do with the right words.”

“Unfortunately, the right words are more readily listened to if you also have a sharp stick,”^{10} said Lord Downey.

Lord Selachii slapped the table. “We don't have to talk to these people! My lords… gentlemen… it's up to us to show them we won't be pushed around! We must re-form the regiments!”

“Oh, private armies?” said Vimes. “Under the command of someone whose fitness for it lies in the fact that he can afford to pay for a thousand funny hats?”

Someone leaned forward, halfway along the table. Up to that moment Vimes had thought he was asleep, and when Lord Rust spoke it was, indeed, in a sort of yawn.

“Whose fitness, Mister Vimes, lies in a thousand years of breeding for leadership,” he said.

The “Mister” twisted in Vimes's chest. He knew he was a mister, would always be a mister, was probably a blueprint for mistership, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't be Sir Samuel to someone who pronounced years as “hyahs”.

“Ah, good breeding,” he said. “No, sorry, don't have any of that, if that's what you need to get your own men killed by sheer—”

“Gentlemen, please,” said the Patrician. He shook his head. “Let's have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war.^{11} As for re-forming the regiments, well, this is of course your ancient right. The supplying of armed men in times of need is one of the duties of a gentleman. History is on your side. The precedents are clear enough, I can't go against them. I have to say I cannot afford to.”

“You're going to let them play soldiers?” said Vimes.

“Oh, Commander Vimes,” said Mr Burleigh, smiling. “As a military man yourself, you must—”

Sometimes people can attract attention by shouting. They might opt for thumping a table, or even take a swing at someone else. But Vimes achieved the effect by freezing, by simply doing nothing. The chill radiated off him. Lines in his face locked like a statue.

“I am not a military man.”

And then Burleigh made the mistake of trying to grin disarmingly.

“Well, commander, the helmet and armour and everything… It's really all the same in the end, isn't it?”

“No. It's not.”

“Gentlemen…” Lord Vetinari put his hands flat on the table, a sign that the meeting had ended. “I can only repeat that tomorrow I shall be discussing the matter with Prince Khufurah—”

“I've heard good reports of him,” said Lord Rust. “Strict but fair. One can only admire what he's doing in some of those backward regions. A most—”

“No, sir. You are thinking of Prince Cadram,” said Lord Vetinari “Khufurah is the younger brother. He is arriving here as his brother's special envoy.”

“Him? That one? The man's a wastrel! A cheat! A liar! They say he takes bri —”

“Thank you for your diplomatic input, Lord Rust,” said the Patrician. “We must deal with facts as they are. There is always a way. Our nations have many interests in common. And of course it says a lot for the seriousness with which Cadram is treating this matter that he is sending his own brother to deal with it. It's a nod towards the international community.”

“A Klatchian bigwig is coming here?” said Vimes. “No one told me!”

“Strange as it may seem, Sir Samuel, I am occasionally capable of governing this city for minutes at a time without seeking your advice and guidance.”

“I meant there's a lot of anti-Klatchian feeling around—”

“A really greasy piece of work—” Lord Rust whispered to Mr Boggis, in that special aristocratic whisper that carries to the rafters. “It's an insult to send him here!”

“I am sure that you will see to it that the streets are safe to walk, Vimes,” said the Patrician sharply. “I know you pride yourself on that sort of thing. Officially he's here because the wizards have invited him to their big award ceremony. An honorary doctorate, that sort of thing. And one of their lunches afterwards. I do like negotiating with people after the faculty of Unseen University have entertained them to lunch. They tend not to move about much and they'll agree to practically anything if they think there's a chance of a stomach powder and a small glass of water. And now, gentlemen… if you will excuse me…”

The lords and leaders departed in ones and twos, talking quietly as they walked out into the hall.

The Patrician shuffled his papers into order, running a thin finger along each edge of the pile, and then looked up.

“You appear to be casting a shadow, commander.”

“You're not really going to allow them to re-form the regiments, are you?” said Vimes.

“There is absolutely no law against it, Vimes. And it will keep them occupied. Every official gentleman is entitled, in fact I believe used to be required, to raise men when the city required it. And, of course, any citizen has the right to bear arms. Bear that in mind, please.”

“Arms is one thing. Holding weapons in 'em and playing soldiers is another.” Vimes put his knuckles on the table and leaned forward.

“You see, sir,” he said, “I can't help but think that over there in Klatch a bunch of idiots are doing the same thing. They're saying to the Seriph ‘It's time to sort out those devils in Ankh-Morpork, offendi’. And when a lot of people are running around with weapons and talking daft stuff about war, accidents happen. Have you ever been in a pub when everyone goes armed? Oh, things are a little polite at first, I'll grant you, and then some twerp drinks out of the wrong mug or picks up someone else's change by mistake and five minutes later you're picking noses out of the beer nuts—”

The Patrician looked down at Vimes's knuckles and stared fixedly until Vimes removed them.

“Vimes, you will be at the wizards' Convivium tomorrow. I sent you a memo about it.”

“I never—” A vision of the piles of unread paperwork on Vimes's desk loomed treacherously in his mind. “Ah,” he said.

“The Commander of the Watch leads the procession in full dress uniform. It's an ancient custom.”

“Me? Walk in front of everyone?”

“Indeed. Very… civic. As I'm sure you recall. It demonstrates the friendly alliance between the University and the civil government which, I may say, seems to consist of their promising to do anything we ask provided we promise not to ask them to do anything. Anyway, it is your duty. Tradition decrees it. And Lady Sybil has agreed to see to it that you are there with a crisp bright shining morning face.”

Vimes took a deep breath. “You asked my wife?”

“Certainly. She is very proud of you. She believes you are capable of great things, Vimes. She must be a great comfort to you.”

“Well, I… I mean, I… yes…”

“Excellent. Oh, just one other thing, Vimes. I do have the Assassins and the Thieves in agreement on this, but to cover all eventualities… I would consider it a favour if you could see to it that no one throws eggs or something at the Prince. That sort of thing always upsets people.”

The two sides watched each other carefully. They were old enemies. They had tested strengths many a time, had tasted defeat and victory, had contested turf. But this time it would go all the way.

Knuckles whitened. Boots scraped impatiently.

Captain Carrot bounced the ball once or twice.

“All right, lads, one more try, eh? And this time, no horseplay. William, what are you eating?”