Guards! Guards! - Terry Pratchett [64]
“Has he got a magic skin?”
“You’ve got no romance in your soul, Captain,” said Throat, removing a very hot toasting fork from the tiny frying pan on his tray and applying it gently to the buttock of a large woman in front of him. “Stand aside, madam, commerce is the lifeblood of the city, thank you very much. O’course,” he continued, “by rights there should be a maiden chained to a rock. Only the aunt said no. That’s the trouble with some people. No sense of tradition. This lad says he’s the rightful air, too.”
Vimes shook his head. The world was definitely going mad around him. “You’ve lost me there,” he said.
“Air,” said Throat patiently. “You know. Air to the throne.”
“What throne?”
“The throne of Ankh.”
“What throne of Ankh?”
“You know. Kings and that.” Throat looked reflective. “Wish I knew what his bloody name is,” he said. “I put an order in to Igneous the Troll’s all-night wholesale pottery for three gross of coronation mugs and it’s going to be a right pain, painting all the names in afterward. Shall I put you down for a couple, Cap’n? To you ninety pence, and that’s cutting me own throat.”
Vimes gave up, and shoved his way back through the throng using Carrot as a lighthouse. The lance-constable loomed over the crowd, and the rest of the rank had anchored themselves to him.
“It’s all gone mad,” he shouted. “What’s going on, Carrot?”
“There’s a lad on a horse in the middle of the plaza,” said Carrot. “He’s got a glittery sword, you know. Doesn’t seem to be doing much at the moment, though.”
Vimes fought his way into the lee of Lady Ramkin.
“Kings,” he panted. “Of Ankh. And Thrones. Are there?”
“What? Oh, yes. There used to be,” said Lady Ramkin. “Hundreds of years ago. Why?”
“Some kid says he’s heir to the throne!”
“That’s right,” said Throat, who’d followed Vimes in the hope of clinching a sale. “He made a big speech about how he was going to kill the dragon, overthrow the usurpers and right all wrongs. Everyone cheered. Hot sausages, two for a dollar, made of genuine pig, why not buy one for the lady?”
“Don’t you mean pork, sir?” said Carrot warily, eyeing the glistening tubes.
“Manner of speaking, manner of speaking,” said Throat quickly. “Certainly your actual pig products. Genuine pig.”
“Everyone cheers any speech in this city,” growled Vimes. “It doesn’t mean anything!”
“Get your pig sausages, five for two dollars!” said Throat, who never let a conversation stand in the way of trade. “Could be good for business, could monarchy. Pig sausages! Pig sausages! Inna bun! And righting all wrongs, too. Sounds like a solid idea to me. With onions!”
“Can I press you to a hot sausage, ma’am?” said Nobby.
Lady Ramkin looked at the tray around Throat’s neck. Thousands of years of good breeding came to her aid and there was only the faintest suggestion of horror in her voice when she said, “My, they look good. What splendid foodstuffs.”
“Are they made by monks on some mystic mountain?” said Carrot.
Throat gave him an odd look. “No,” he said patiently, “by pigs.”
“What wrongs?” said Vimes urgently. “Come on, tell me. What wrongs is he going to right?”
“We-ell,” said Throat, “there’s, well, taxes. That’s wrong, for a start.” He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Paying taxes was something that, in Throat’s world, happened only to other people.
“That’s right,” said an old woman next to him. “And the gutter of my house leaks something dreadful and the landlord won’t do nothing. That’s wrong.”
“And premature baldness,” said the man in front of her. “That’s wrong, too.” Vimes’s mouth dropped open.
“Ah. Kings can cure that, you know,” said another protomonarchist knowingly.
“As a matter of fact,” said Throat, rummaging in his pack, “I’ve got one bottle left of this astonishing ointment what is made—” he glared at Carrot—“by some ancient monks who live on a mountain—”
“And they can’t answer back, you know,” the monarchist went on. “That’s how you can tell they’re royal. Completely incapable of it. It’s to do with