Men at Arms (Discworld #15)(18)

'Because that bastard Cruces doesn't want me to know.'

'I know what could have blown the hole open,' said Angua.

'What?'

'An exploding dragon.'

They walked in stunned silence.

'That could do it, sir,' said Carrot loyally. 'The little devils go bang at the drop of a helmet.'

'Dragon,' muttered Vimes. 'What makes you think it was a dragon, Lance-Constable Angua?'

Angua hesitated. 'Because a dog told me' was not, she judged, a career-advancing thing to say at this point.

'Woman's intuition?' she suggested.

'I suppose,' said Vimes, 'you wouldn't hazard an intuitive guess as to what was stolen?'

Angua shrugged. Carrot noticed how interestingly her chest moved.

'Something the Assassins wanted to keep where they could look at it?' she said.

'Oh, yes,' said Vimes. 'I suppose next you'll tell me this dog saw it all?'

'Woof?'

Edward d'Eath drew the curtains, bolted the door and leaned on it. It had been so easy!

He'd put the bundle on the table. It was thin, and about four feet long.

He unwrapped it carefully, and there . . . it . . . was.

It looked pretty much like the drawing. Typical of the man – a whole page full of meticulous drawings of crossbows, and this in the margin, as though it hardly mattered.

It was so simple! Why hide it away? Probably because people were afraid. People were always afraid of power. It made them nervous.

Edward picked it up, cradled it for a while, and found that it seemed to fit his arm and shoulder very snugly.

You're mine.

And that, more or less, was the end of Edward d'Eath. Something continued for a while, but what it was, and how it thought, wasn't entirely human.

It was nearly noon. Sergeant Colon had taken the new recruits down to the archery butts in Butts Treat.

Vimes went on patrol with Carrot.

He felt something inside him bubbling over. Something was brushing the tips of his corroded but nevertheless still-active instincts, trying to draw attention to itself. He had to be on the move. It was all that Carrot could do to keep up.

There were trainee Assassins in the streets around the Guild, still sweeping up debris.

Assassins in daylight,' snarled Vimes. 'I'm amazed they don't turn to dust.'

'That's vampires, sir,' said Carrot.

'Hah! You're right. Assassins and licensed thieves and bloody vampires! You know, this was a great old city once, lad.'

Unconsciously, they fell into step . . . proceeding.

'When we had kings, sir?'

'Kings? Kings? Hell, no!'

A couple of Assassins looked around in surprise.

'I'll tell you,' said Vimes. A monarch's an absolute ruler, right? The head honcho—'

'Unless he's a queen,' said Carrot.

Vimes glared at him, and then nodded.

'OK, or the head honchette—'

'No, that'd only apply if she was a young woman. Queens tend to be older. She'd have to be a . . . a honcharina? No, that's for very young princesses. No. Um. A honchesa, I think.'

Vimes paused. There's something in the air in this city, he thought. If the Creator had said, 'Let there be light' in Ankh-Morpork, he'd have got no further because of all the people saying 'What colour?'

'The supreme ruler, OK,' he said, starting to stroll forward again.

'OK.'

'But that's not right, see? One man with the power of life and death.'

'But if he's a good man—' Carrot began.

'What? What? OK. OK. Let's believe he's a good man. But his second-in-command – is he a good man too? You'd better hope so. Because he's the supreme ruler, too, in the name of the king. And the rest of the court . . . they've got to be good men. Because if just one of them's a bad man the result is bribery and patronage.'

'The Patrician's a supreme ruler,' Carrot pointed out. He nodded at a passing troll. 'G'day, Mr Carbuncle.'

'But he doesn't wear a crown or sit on a throne and he doesn't tell you it's right that he should rule,' said Vimes. 'I hate the bastard. But he's honest. Honest like a corkscrew.'

'Even so, a good man as king—'

'Yes? And then what? Royalty pollutes people's minds, boy. Honest men start bowing and bobbing just because someone's grandad was a bigger murdering bastard than theirs was. Listen! We probably had good kings, once! But kings breed other kings! And blood tells, and you end up with a bunch of arrogant, murdering bastards! Chopping off queens' heads and fighting their cousins every five minutes! And we had centuries of that! And then one day a man said “No more kings!” and we rose up and we fought the bloody nobles and we dragged the king off his throne and we dragged him into Sator Square and we chopped his bloody head off! Job well done!'


'Wow,' said Carrot. 'Who was he?'

'Who?'

'The man who said “No More Kings”.'

People were staring. Vimes' face went from the red of anger to the red of embarrassment. There was little difference in the shading, however.

'Oh . . . he was Commander of the City Guard in those days,' he mumbled. 'They called him Old Stoneface.'