Part 52 (2/2)
”Polis.h.i.+ng his helmet, sir!” said Cheery, on the point of panic.
”What the h.e.l.l is he wasting time with that for?”
”Er...er...because we're supposed to leave for the coronation in ten minutes, sir?”
”Oh...yes...”
”Lady Sybil told me to come and find you. In a very distinct distinct tone of voice, sir.” tone of voice, sir.”
At that point Lady Sybil's voice boomed along the corridor.
”Sam Vimes! You come here!”
”That one, sir,” Cheery added helpfully.
Vimes trailed into the bedroom. Sybil was wearing another blue dress, a tiara and a firm expression.
”Is it a posh do?” said Vimes. ”I thought if I put on a clean s.h.i.+rt-”
”Your official dress uniform is in the dressing room,” said Sybil.
”It was rather a long day yesterday-”
”This is a coronation coronation, Samuel Vimes. It is not a come-as-you-are! Go and get dressed, quickly. Including, and I don't want to have to say this twice, the helmet with the feathers.”
”But not the red tights,” said Vimes, hoping against hope. ”Please?”
”The red tights, Sam, go without saying.”
”They go at the knees,” said Vimes, but it was the grumble of the defeated.
”I'll ring for Igor to come and help you.”
”Things will have come to a pretty pa.s.s when I can't put my own tights on, dear, thank you.”
Vimes dressed hurriedly, listening for...anything. Some creak in the wrong place, perhaps.
At least this was a Watch uniform, even if it did have buckled shoes. It included a sword. The duking outfit didn't allow for one, which had always struck Vimes as amazingly stupid. You got made a duke for being a fighter, and then they gave you nothing to fight with.
There was a tinkle of gla.s.s, back in the bedroom, and Lady Sybil was astonished to see her husband enter at a run with his sword raised.
”I dropped the top of a scent bottle, Sam!” she said. ”What's up with you? Even Angua says he's probably miles away and in no shape to cause trouble! Why're you so nervy?”
Vimes sheathed the sword, and tried to relax.
”Because our Wolfgang's a d.a.m.n bottle covey, dear. Any normal person, they crawl off if they get a beating. Or they have the sense to stay down, at least. But sometimes you get one who just won't let go. Eight-stone weaklings who'll try to head-b.u.t.t Detritus. Evil little bantamweight b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who'll bust a bottle on the bar and try to attack five watchmen all at once. You know what I mean? Idiots who'll go on fighting long after they should stop. The only way to put 'em down is to put 'em out.”
”I think I recognize the type, yes,” said Lady Sybil, with an irony that failed to register with Sam Vimes until some days later. She picked some lint off his cloak.
”He's going to be back. I can feel it in my water,” mumbled Vimes.
”Sam?”
”Yes?”
”Can I have your attention for a couple of minutes? Wolfgang is not your problem now. And I really need to talk to you very quietly for a little while without you running off after werewolves.” She said it as if this was a minor character flaw, like a tendency to leave his boots where people could trip over them.
”Er...they run after me me,” he pointed out.
”But there's always people being found dead or trying to kill you-”
”I don't ask ask them to, dear.” them to, dear.”
”Sam, I'm going to have a baby.”
Vimes's head was full of werewolves and his automatic husbandry circuitry cut in to respond with ”yes, dear,” or ”choose any color you like” or ”I'll get someone to sort it out.” Fortunately his brain itself had its own sense of self-preservation and, not wis.h.i.+ng to be inside a skull that was stoved in by a bedside lamp, rewrote Sybil's words in white-hot fire across his inner eyeball and then went and hid.
That's why the response came out as a weak ”What? How?”
”The normal way, I hope.”
Vimes sat down on the bed. ”And...not right now?”
”I very much doubt it. But Mrs. Content says it's definite, and she's been a midwife for fifty years.”
”Oh.” Some more brain functions crept back. ”Good. That's...good.”
”It'll probably take a while to sink in.”
”Yes.” Another neuron lit up. ”Er...everything will be all right, will it?”
”What do you mean?”
”Er, you're rather, you're not as...you...”
”Sam, my family have bred bred for breeding. It's an aristocratic tradition. It's practically what being an aristocrat for breeding. It's an aristocratic tradition. It's practically what being an aristocrat means means. Of course everything will be all right.”
”Oh. Good.”
Vimes sat and stared. His head felt like some vast sea that had just been parted by a prophet. Where there should have been activity, there was just bare sand and the occasional floundering fish. But huge steep waves were tottering on either side, and in a minute they would crash down and cause cities to flood, a hundred miles away.
More gla.s.s tinkled, somewhere downstairs.
”Sam, Igor's probably just dropped something,” said Sybil, seeing his expression. ”That's all. Probably just knocked a gla.s.s over.”
There was a snarl, and a scream, abruptly cut off.
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