Part 23 (1/2)

”What? Yes, it b.l.o.o.d.y well is!” said Vimes. ”I can't believe believe this! You can't just stand there and...good grief, whatever happened to diplomacy?” this! You can't just stand there and...good grief, whatever happened to diplomacy?”

”War, Vimes, is a continuation of diplomacy by other means,” said Lord Rust. ”As you would know, if you were really a gentleman.”

”And you Klatchians are as bad,” Vimes went on. ”It's that green mouldy mutton Jenkins sells. You've all got Foaming Sheep Disease. You can't just stand there and-”

”Sir Samuel, you are, as you are at pains to point out, a civilian,” said Rust. ”As such, you have no place here!”

Vimes didn't bother with a salute but just turned away and walked out of the room. The rest of the squad followed him in silence back to Pseudopolis Yard.

”I told him he could put it where the sun didn't s.h.i.+ne,” said Sergeant Colon, as they crossed the Bra.s.s Bridge.

”That's right,” said Vimes woodenly. ”Well done.”

”Right to his face. 'Where the sun don't s.h.i.+ne.' Just like that,” said Colon. It was a little difficult to tell from his tone whether this was a matter of pride or dread.

”I'm afraid Lord Rust is technically correct, sir,” said Carrot.

”Really.”

”Yes, Mr. Vimes. The safety of the city is of paramount importance, so in times of war the civil power is subject to military authority.”

”Hah.”

”I told told him,” said Fred Colon. ”Right where the sun does not s.h.i.+ne, I said.” him,” said Fred Colon. ”Right where the sun does not s.h.i.+ne, I said.”

”The deputy amba.s.sador didn't mention Prince Khufurah,” said Carrot. ”That was odd.”

”I'm going home,” said Vimes.

”We're nearly there, sir,” said Carrot.

”I mean home home home. I need some sleep.” home. I need some sleep.”

”Yes, sir. What shall I tell the lads, sir?”

”Tell them anything you like.”

”I looked him right in the eye and I told him, I said, you can put it right where the-” mused Sergeant Colon.

”You want me an' some of der boys go and sort out dat Rust later on?” said Detritus. ”It no problem. He bound to be guilty o' somethin'.”

”No!”

Vimes's head felt so light now that he couldn't touch the ground with a rope. He left them outside the Yard and let his head drag him on and up the hill and round the corner and into the house and past his astonished wife and up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he fell full length on the bed and was asleep before he hit it.

At nine next morning the first recruits for Lord Venturi's Heavy Infantry paraded down Broadway.

The watchmen went out to watch. That was all that was left for them to do.

”Isn't that Mr. Vimes's butler?” said Angua, pointing to the stiff figure of Willikins in the front rank.

”Yeah, and that's his kitchen boy banging the drum in front,” said n.o.bby.

”You were a...military man, weren't you, Fred?” said Carrot, as the parade pa.s.sed by.

”Yes, sir. Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry, sir. The Pheasant Pluckers.”

”Pardon?” said Angua.

”Nickname for the regiment, miss. Oh, from ages ago. They were bivvywhacking on some estate and came across a lot of pheasant pens and, well, you know, having to live off the land and everything...anyway, that's why we always wore a pheasant feather on our helmets. Traditional, see?”

Already old Fred's face was creasing up in the soft expression of someone who has been mugged in Memory Lane.

”We even had a marching song,” he said. ”Mind you, it was quite hard to sing right. Er...sorry, miss?”

”Oh, it's all right, sergeant,” said Angua. ”I often start to laugh like that for no reason at all.”

Fred Colon once again stared dreamily at nothing. ”And o'course before that I was in the Duke of Quirm's Middleweight Infantry. Saw a lot of action with them.”

”I'm sure you did,” said Carrot, while Angua entertained cynical thoughts about the actual distance of Fred's vantage point. ”Your distinguished military career has obviously given you many pleasant memories.”

”The ladies liked the uniform,” said Fred Colon, with the unspoken rider that sometimes a growing lad needed all the help he could get. ”An' it...weelll...”

”Yes, sarge?”

Colon looked awkward, as if the bunched underwear of the past was tangling itself in the crotch of recollection.

”It was...more easier, sir. Than being a copper, I mean. I mean, you're a soldier, right, and the other b.u.g.g.e.rs is the enemy. You march into some big field somewhere and all form up into them oblongs, and then a bloke with the feathery helmet gives the order, and you all forms up into big arrows-”

”Good G.o.ds, do people really do that? I thought it was just how they drew the battle plans!”

”Well, the old duke, sir, he did it by the book...anyway, it's just a case of watching your back and walloping any bloke in the wrong uniform. But...” Fred Colon's face screwed up in agonized thought, ”well, when you're a copper, well, you dunno the good guys from the bad guys without a map, miss, and that's a fact.”

”But...there's military military law, isn't there?” law, isn't there?”

”Well, yes...but when it's p.i.s.sing with rain and you're up to your tonk-your waist in dead horses and someone gives you an order, that ain't the time to look up the book of rules, miss. Anyway, most of it's about when you're allowed to get shot, sir.”

”Oh, I'm sure there's more to it than that, sergeant.”

”Oh, prob'ly, sir,” Colon conceded diplomatically.

”I'm sure there's lots of stuff about not killing enemy soldiers who've surrendered, for instance.”

”Oh, yerss, there's that that, captain. Doesn't say you can't duff 'em up a bit, of course. Give 'em a little something to remember you by.”

”Not torture torture?” said Angua.