Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [129]
Vimes marched the rank to the center of the hall and stamped to a halt with his helmet under his arm, as per regulations. He’d been amazed to see that even Nobby had made an effort—the suspicion of shiny metal could be seen here and there on his breastplate. And Colon was wearing an expression of almost constipated importance. Carrot’s armor gleamed.
Colon ripped off a textbook salute for the first time in his life.
“All present and correct, sah!” he barked.
“Very good, Sergeant,” said Vimes coldly. He turned to the Patrician and raised an eyebrow politely.
Lord Vetinari gave a little wave of his hand.
“Stand easy, or whatever it is you chaps do,” he said. “I’m sure we needn’t wait on ceremony here. What do you say, Captain?”
“Just as you like, sir,” said Vimes.
“Now, men,” said the Patrician, leaning forward, “we have heard some remarkable accounts of your magnificent efforts in defense of the city…”
Vimes let his mind wander as the golden platitudes floated past. For a while he derived a certain amount of amusement from watching the faces of the Council. A whole sequence of expressions drifted across them as the Patrician spoke. It was, of course, vitally important that there be a ceremony like this. Then the whole thing could be neat and settled. And forgotten. Just another chapter in the long and exciting history of eckcetra, eckcetra. Ankh-Morpork was good at starting new chapters.
His trawling gaze fell on Lady Ramkin. She winked. Vimes’s eyes swiveled front again, his expression suddenly as wooden as a plank.
“…token of our gratitude,” the Patrician finished, sitting back.
Vimes realized that everyone was looking at him.
“Pardon?” he said.
“I said, we have been trying to think of some suitable recompense, Captain Vimes. Various public-spirited citizens—” the Patrician’s eyes took in the Council and Lady Ramkin—“and, of course, myself, feel that an appropriate reward is due.”
Vimes still looked blank.
“Reward?” he said.
“It is customary for such heroic endeavor,” said the Patrician, a little testily.
Vimes faced forward again. “Really haven’t thought about it, sir,” he said. “Can’t speak for the men, of course.”
There was an awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes was aware of Nobby nudging the sergeant in the ribs. Eventually Colon stumbled forward and ripped off another salute. “Permission to speak, sir,” he muttered.
The Patrician nodded graciously.
The sergeant coughed. He removed his helmet and pulled out a scrap of paper.
“Er,” he said. “The thing is, saving your honor’s presence, we think, you know, what with saving the city and everything, or sort of, or, what I mean is…we just had a go, you see, man on the spot and that sort of thing…the thing is, we reckon we’re entitled. If you catch my drift.”
The assembled company nodded. This was exactly how it should be.
“Do go on,” said the Patrician.
“So we, like, put our heads together,” said the sergeant. “A bit of a cheek, I know…”
“Please carry on, Sergeant,” said the Patrician. “You needn’t keep stopping. We are well aware of the magnitude of the matter.”
“Right, sir. Well, sir. First, it’s the wages.”
“The wages?” said Lord Vetinari. He stared at Vimes, who stared at nothing.
The sergeant raised his head. His expression was the determined expression of a man who is going to see it through.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thirty dollars a month. It’s not right. We think—” he licked his lips and glanced behind him at the other two, who were making vague encouraging motions—“we think a basic rate of, er, thirty-five dollars? A month?” He stared at the Patrician’s stony expression. “With increments as per rank? We thought five dollars.”
He licked his lips again, unnerved by the Patrician’s expression. “We won’t go below four,” he said. “And that’s flat. Sorry, your Highness, but there it is.”
The Patrician glanced again at Vimes’s impassive face, then looked back at the rank.
“That’s it?” he said.
Nobby whispered in Colon’s ear