'What?' said Vimes distractedly.
'You keep on staring upwards,' said the beggar.
'Hmm? Oh. No. Nothing wrong,' said Vimes.
The beggar wrapped his velvet cloak around him.
'You couldn't by any chance spare…,' he paused, calculating a sum in accordance with his station, '…about three hundred dollars for a twelve-course civic banquet, could you?'
'No.'
'Fair enough. Fair enough,' said the chief beggar amiably. He sighed. It wasn't a rewarding job, being chief beggar. It was the differentials that did for you. Low-grade beggars made a reasonable enough living on pennies, but people tended to look the other way when you asked them for a sixteen-bedroom mansion for the night.
Vimes resumed his study of the sky.
Up on the dais the High Priest of Blind Io, who last night by dint of elaborate ecumenical argument and eventually by a club with nails in it had won the right to crown the king, fussed over his preparations. By the small portable sacrificial altar a tethered billy goat was peacefully chewing the cud and possibly thinking, in Goat: What a lucky billy goat I am, to be given such a good view of the proceedings. This is going to be something to tell the kids.
Vimes scanned the diffused outlines of the nearest buildings.
A distant cheering suggested that the ceremonial procession was on its way.
There was a scuffle of activity around the dais as Lupine Wonse chivvied a scramble of servants who rolled a purple carpet down the steps.
Across the square, amongst the ranks of Ankh-Morpork's faded aristocracy, Lady Ramkin's face tilted upwards.
Вы читаете Guards! Guards!
