Jingo - Terry Pratchett [67]
“Yessir!”
“You told them it wasn’t compulsory?”
“Yessir! I said, ‘It ain’t compuls’ry, you just gotta,’ sir.”
“Detritus, I wanted volunteers.”
“’sright, sir. They volunteered all right, I saw to that.”
Vimes sighed as he walked back to his office. But they were probably safe. He was pretty sure he was legally sound and if he knew anything about Rust, the man would respect the letter of the law. Such men did, in a chilly way. Besides, thirty men in the Watch simply didn’t figure in the great scheme of things. Rust could ignore them.
Suddenly there’s a war brewing, Vimes thought, and they all come back. Civil order is turned upside down, because that’s the rules. And people like Rust are at the top of the heap again. You have these aristocrats lazing around for years, and suddenly the old armor’s out and the sword is being taken down from over the fireplace. They think there’s going to be a war and all they can think about is that wars can be won or lost…
Someone’s behind this. Someone wants to see a war. Someone paid to have Ossie and Snowy killed. Someone wanted the Prince dead. I’ve got to remember that. This isn’t a war. This is a crime.
And then he realized he was wondering if the attack on Goriff’s shop had been organized by the same people, and whether those same people had set fire to the embassy.
And then he realized why he was thinking like this.
It was because he wanted there to be conspirators. It was much better to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power, plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn’t then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I’m one of Us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We’re always one of Us. It’s Them that do the bad things.
Around about this time, in his former life, Vimes would be taking the cap off a bottle, and wouldn’t be too bothered about the bottle’s contents so long as they crinkled paint—
“Ook?”
“Oh, hello. What can I do for—oh, yes, I asked about books on Klatch…Is that all?”
The Librarian shyly held out a small, battered green book. Vimes had been expecting something bigger, but he took it anyway. It paid to look at any book the orangutan gave you. He matched you up to books. Vimes supposed it was a knack, in the same way that an undertaker was very good at judging heights.
On the spine, in very faded gold lettering, were the words “VENI VIDI VICI: A Soldier’s Life by Gen. A. Tacticus.”
Nobby and Sergeant Colon edged along the alley.
“I know who he is!” Fred hissed. “That’s Leonard of Quirm, that is! He went missing five years ago!”
“So he’s called Leonard and he’s from Quirm, so what?” said Nobby.
“He’s a raving genius!”
“He’s a loony.”
“Yeah, well, they say there’s a thin line between genius and madness…”
“He’s fallen off it, then.”
The voice behind them said, “Oh, dear, this won’t do at all, will it…? I can’t deny it, you were quite right, the accuracy would be quite unacceptable at any reasonable range. Could you bear to stop a moment, please?”
They turned. Leonard was already dismantling the tube.
“If you could just hang on to this bit, corporal…and, sergeant, if you would be so good as to hold this piece steady…some sort of fins should do it, I’m sure I had a suitable piece of wood somewhere…” Leonard began to pat his pockets.
The watchmen realized that the man holding them up had paused to redesign his weapon and had given it to them to hold while he looked for a screwdriver. This was a thing that did not often happen.
Nobby silently took the rocket from Colon and pushed it into the tube.