Men at Arms (2 page)

“This one had been very well hidden in one of the carts, which had broken up. Strange. One would expect it to be ready to hand, yes? To be used? In b-andit country? And then the boy grows up and, and…Fate…conspires that he and his sword come to Ankh-Morpork, where he is currently a watchman in the Night Watch. I couldn’t believe it!”

“That’s still not—”

Edward raised his hand a moment, and then pulled out a package from the case.

“I made careful enq-uiries, you know, and was able to find the place where the attack occurred. A most careful search of the ground revealed old cart n-ails, a few copper coins and, in some charcoal…this.”

They craned to see.

“Looks like a ring.”

“Yes. It’s, it’s, it’s superficially d-iscolored, of course, otherwise someone would have spot-ted it. Probably secreted somewhere on a cart. I’ve had it p-artly cleaned. You can just read the inscription. Now,
here
is an illustrated inventory of the royal jewelery of Ankh done in
AM
907, in the reign of King Tyrril. May I, please, may I draw your a-ttention to the small wedding ring in the bottom left-hand corner of the page? You will see that the artist has hel-pfully drawn the inscription.”

It took several minutes for everyone to examine it. They were naturally suspicious people. They were all descendants of people for whom suspicion and paranoia had been prime survival traits.

Because they were all aristocrats. Not one among them did not know the name of his or her great-great-great-grandfather and what embarrassing disease he’d died of.

They had just eaten a not-very-good meal which had, however, included some ancient and worthwhile wines. They’d attended because they’d all known Edward’s father, and the d’Eaths were a fine old family, if now in very reduced circumstances.

“So you see,” said Edward proudly, “the evidence is overwhelming. We have a king!”

His audience tried to avoid looking at each other’s faces.

“I thought you’d be pl-eased,” said Edward.

Finally, Lord Rust voiced the unspoken consensus. There was no room in those true-blue eyes for pity, which was not a survival trait, but sometimes it was possible to risk a little kindness.

“Edward,” he said, “the last king of Ankh-Morpork died centuries ago.”

“Executed by t-raitors!”

“Even if a descendant could still be found, the royal blood would be somewhat watered down by now, don’t you think?”

“The royal b-lood
cannot
be wa-tered down!”

Ah, thought Lord Rust. So he’s
that
kind. Young Edward thinks the touch of a king can cure scrofula, as if royalty was the equivalent of a sulphur ointment. Young Edward thinks that there is no lake of blood too big to wade through to put a rightful king on a throne, no deed too base in defense of a crown. A romantic, in fact.

Lord Rust was not a romantic. The Rusts had adapted well to Ankh-Morpork’s post-monarchy centuries by buying and selling and renting and making contacts and doing what aristocrats have always done, which is trim sails and survive.

“Well, maybe,” he conceded, in the gentle tones of someone trying to talk someone else off a ledge, “but we must ask ourselves: does Ankh-Morpork, at this point in time,
require
a king?”

Edward looked at him as though he were mad.

“Need?
Need?
While our fair city languishes under the heel of the ty-rant?”

“Oh. You mean Vetinari.”

“Can’t you see what he’s done to this city?”

“He
is
a very unpleasant, jumped-up little man,” said Lady Selachii, “but I would not say he actually
terrorizes
much. Not as such.”

“You have to hand it to him,” said Viscount Skater, “the city operates. More or less. Fellas and whatnot do things.”

“The streets are safer than they used to be under Mad Lord Snapcase,” said Lady Selachii.

“Sa-fer? Vetinari set up the Thieves’ Guild!” shouted Edward.

“Yes, yes, of course, very reprehensible, certainly. On the other hand, a modest annual payment and one walks in safety…”

“He always says,” said Lord Rust, “that if you’re going to have crime, it might as well be organized crime.”

“Seems to me,” said Viscount Skater, “that all the Guild chappies put up with him because anyone else would be worse, yes? We’ve certainly had some…difficult ones. Anyone remember Homicidal Lord Winder?”

“Deranged Lord Harmoni,” said Lord Monflathers.

“Laughing Lord Scapula,” said Lady Selachii. “A man with a
very
pointed sense of humor.”

“Mind you, Vetinari…there’s something not entirely…” Lord Rust began.

“I know what you mean,” said Viscount Skater. “I don’t like the way he always knows what you’re thinking before you think it.”

“Everyone knows the Assassins have set
his
fee at a million dollars,” said Lady Selachii. “That’s how much it would cost to have him killed.”

“One can’t help feeling,” said Lord Rust, “that it would cost a lot more than that to make sure he stayed dead.”

“Ye gods! What happened to pride? What happened to honor?”

They perceptibly jumped as the last Lord d’Eath thrust himself out of his chair.

“Will you listen to yourselves? Please? Look at you. What man among you has not seen his family name degraded since the days of the kings? Can’t you remember the men your forefathers were?” He strode rapidly around the table, so that they had to turn to watch him. He pointed an angry finger.

“You, Lord Rust! Your ancestor was cr-eated a Baron after single-handedly killing thirty-seven Klatchians while armed with nothing more than a p-in, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, but—”

“You, sir…Lord Monflathers! The first Duke led six hundred men to a glorious and epic de-feat at the Battle of Quirm! Does that mean n-othing? And you, Lord Venturii, and you, Sir George…sitting in Ankh in your old houses with your old names and your old money, while Guilds—
Guilds!
Ragtags of tradesmen and merchants!—Guilds, I say, have a voice in the running of the city!”

He reached a bookshelf in two strides and threw a huge leather-bound book on to the table, where it upset Lord Rust’s glass.

“
Twurp’s P-eerage,
” he shouted. “We all have pages in there! We
own
it. But this man has you mesmerized! I assure you he is flesh and blood, a mere mortal! No one dares remove him because they th-ink it will make things a little worse for themselves! Ye g-ods!”

His audience looked glum. It was all true, of course…if you put it that way. And it didn’t sound any better coming from a wild-eyed, pompous young man.

“Yes, yes, the good old days. Towerin’ spires and pennants and chivalry and all that,” said Viscount Skater. “Ladies in pointy hats. Chappies in armor bashin’ one another and whatnot. But, y’know, we have to move with the times—”

“It was a golden age,” said Edward.

My god, thought Lord Rust. He actually
does
believe it.

“You see, dear boy,” said Lady Selachii, “a few chance likenesses and a piece of jewelery—that doesn’t really add up to much, does it?”

“My nurse told me,” said Viscount Skater, “that a
true
king could pull a sword from a stone.”

“Hah, yes, and cure dandruff,” said Lord Rust. “That’s just a legend. That’s not
real
. Anyway, I’ve always been a bit puzzled about that story. What’s so hard about pulling a sword out of a stone? The real work’s already been done. You ought to make yourself useful and find the man who put the sword in the stone in the first place, eh?”

There was a sort of relieved laughter. That’s what Edward remembered. It all ended up in laughter. Not exactly at
him
, but he was the type of person who always takes laughter personally.

Ten minutes later, Edward d’Eath was alone.

They’re being so
nice
about it. Moving with the times! He’d expected more than that of them. A lot more. He’d dared to hope that they might be inspired by his lead. He’d pictured himself at the head of an army—

Blenkin came in at a respectful shuffle.

“I saw ’em all off, Mr. Edward,” he said.

“Thank you, Blenkin. You may clear the table.”

“Yes, Mr. Edward.”

“Whatever happened to honor, Blenkin?”

“Dunno, sir. I never took it.”

“They didn’t want to listen.”

“No, sir.”

“They didn’t want to l-isten.”

Edward sat by the dying fire, with a dog-eared copy of Thighbiter’s
The Ankh-Morpork Succesfion
open on his lap. Dead kings and queens looked at him reproachfully.

And there it might have ended. In fact it did end there, in millions of universes. Edward d’Eath grew older and obsession turned to a sort of bookish insanity of the gloves-with-the-fingers-cut-out and carpet slippers variety, and became an expert on royalty although no one ever knew this because he seldom left his rooms. Corporal Carrot became Sergeant Carrot and, in the fullness of time, died in uniform aged seventy in an unlikely accident involving an anteater.

In a million universes, Lance-Constables Cuddy and Detritus didn’t fall through the hole. In a million universes, Vimes didn’t find the pipes. (In one strange but theoretically possible universe the Watch House was redecorated in pastel colors by a freak whirlwind, which also repaired the door latch and did a few other odd jobs around the place.) In a million universes, the Watch failed.

In a million universes, this was a very short book.

Edward dozed off with the book on his knees and had a dream. He dreamed of glorious struggle. Glorious was another important word in his personal vocabulary, like honor.

If traitors and dishonorable men would not see the truth then he, Edward d’Eath, was the finger of Destiny.

The problem with Destiny, of course, is that she is often not careful where she puts her finger.

Captain Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat in the draughty anteroom to the Patrician’s audience chamber with his best cloak on and his breastplate polished and his helmet on his knees.

He stared woodenly at the wall.

He ought to be happy, he told himself. And he was. In a way. Definitely. Happy as anything.

He was going to get married in a few days.

He was going to stop being a guard.

He was going to be a gentleman of leisure.

He took off his copper badge and buffed it absent-mindedly on the edge of his cloak. Then he held it up so that the light glinted off the patina’d surface. AMCW No. 177. He sometimes wondered how many other guards had had the badge before him.

Well, now someone was going to have it after him.

This is Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousand Surprises (according to the Guild of Merchants’ guidebook). What more need be said? A sprawling place, home to a million people, greatest of cities on the Discworld, located on either side of the river Ankh, a waterway so muddy that it looks as if it is flowing upside down.

And visitors say: how does such a big city exist? What keeps it going? Since it’s got a river you can chew, where does the drinking water come from? What is, in fact, the basis of its civic economy? How come it, against all probability,
works?

Actually, visitors don’t often say this. They usually say things like “Which way to the, you know, the…er…you know, the young ladies, right?”

But if they started thinking with their brains for a little while, that’s what they’d be thinking.

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork sat back on his austere chair with the sudden bright smile of a very busy person at the end of a crowded day who’s suddenly found in his schedule a reminder saying: 7:00-7:05, Be Cheerful and Relaxed and a People Person.

“Well, of course I was very saddened to receive your letter, captain…”

“Yes, sir,” said Vimes, still as wooden as a furniture warehouse.

“
Please
sit down, captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Vimes remained standing. It was a matter of pride.

“But of course I quite understand. The Ramkin country estates are very extensive, I believe. I’m sure Lady Ramkin will appreciate your strong right hand.”

“Sir?” Captain Vimes, while in the presence of the ruler of the city, always concentrated his gaze on a point one foot above and six inches to the left of the man’s head.

“And of course you will be quite a rich man, captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you have thought about that. You will have new responsibilities.”

“Yes, sir.”

It dawned on the Patrician that he was working on both ends of this conversation. He shuffled through the papers on his desk.

“And of course I shall have to promote a new chief officer for the Night Watch,” said the Patrician. “Have you any suggestions, captain?”

Vimes appeared to descend from whatever cloud his mind had been occupying. This was
guard work
.

“Well, not Fred Colon…He’s one of Nature’s sergeants…”

Sergeant Colon, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch) surveyed the bright faces of the new recruits.

He sighed. He remembered his first day. Old Sergeant Wimbler. What a tartar! Tongue like a whiplash! If the old boy had lived to see
this
…

What was it called? Oh, yeah. Affirmative action hirin’ procedure, or something. Silicon Anti-Defamation League had been going on at the Patrician, and now—

“Try it one more time, Lance-Constable Detritus,” he said. “The trick is, you stops your hand just above your ear. Now, just get up off the floor and try salutin’ one more time. Now, then…Lance-Constable Cuddy?”

“Here!”

“Where?”

“In front of you, sergeant.”

Colon looked down and took a step back. The swelling curve of his more than adequate stomach moved aside to reveal the upturned face of Lance-Constable Cuddy, with its helpful intelligent expression and one glass eye.

“Oh. Right.”

“I’m taller than I look.”

Oh, gods, thought Sergeant Colon wearily. Add ’em up and divide by two and you’ve got two normal men, except normal men don’t join the Guard. A troll and a dwarf. And that ain’t the worst of it—