been quite expensive.
He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world.
There was even more bunting now. People were beginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing.
He felt an appetite for once, one that it'd take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga's vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words 'Coronasion' and 'Royall' figured somewhere on every crooked line.
Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.
'What's this?' he said.
Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.
'It says 'Bye Royarl Appointmente', Captain,' he said proudly.
'What's it mean?'
Harga scratched his head with a ladle. 'What it means is,' he said, 'if the king comes in here, he'll like it.'
'Have you got anything that isn't too aristocratic for me to eat, then?' said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter.
A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. 'What're you doing?' he said.
Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter.
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
