Jingo - Terry Pratchett [8]
“That is a disgusting state of affairs!”
The Patrician raised his eyebrows. “Commander Vimes?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you be so good as to assemble a squad of your most experienced men, liaise with the tax gatherers and obtain the accumulated back taxes, please? My clerk here will give you a list of the prime defaulters.”
“Right, sir. And if they resist, sir?” said Vimes, smiling nastily.
“Oh, how can they resist, commander? This is the will of our civic leaders.” He took the paper his clerk proffered. “Let me see, now. Top of the list—”
Lord Selachii coughed hurriedly. “Far too late for that sort of nonsense now,” he said.
“Water under the bridge,” said Lord Downey.
“Dead and buried,” said Mr. Slant.
“I paid mine,” said Vimes.
“So let me recap, then,” said Vetinari. “I don’t think anyone wants to see two grown nations scrapping over a piece of rock. We don’t want to fight, but—”
“By jingo, if we do, we’ll show those—” Lord Selachii began.
“We have no ships. We have no men. We have no money, too,” said Lord Vetinari. “Of course, we have the art of diplomacy. It is amazing what you can do with the right words.”
“Unfortunately, the right words are more readily listened to if you also have a sharp stick,” said Lord Downey.
Lord Selachii slapped the table. “We don’t have to talk to these people! My lords…gentlemen…it’s up to us to show them we won’t be pushed around! We must re-form the regiments!”
“Oh, private armies?” said Vimes. “Under the command of someone whose fitness for it lies in the fact that he can afford to pay for a thousand funny hats?”
Someone leaned forward, halfway along the table. Up to that moment Vimes had thought he was asleep, and when Lord Rust spoke it was, indeed, in a sort of yawn.
“Whose fitness, Mister Vimes, lies in a thousand years of breeding for leadership,” he said.
The “Mister” twisted in Vimes’s chest. He knew he was a mister, would always be a mister, was probably a blueprint for mistership, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t be Sir Samuel to someone who pronounced years as “hyahs.”
“Ah, good breeding,” he said. “No, sorry, don’t have any of that, if that’s what you need to get your own men killed by sheer—”
“Gentlemen, please,” said the Patrician. He shook his head. “Let’s have no fighting, please. This is, after all, a council of war. As for re-forming the regiments, well, this is of course your ancient right. The supplying of armed men in times of need is one of the duties of a gentleman. History is on your side. The precedents are clear enough, I can’t go against them. I have to say I cannot afford to.”
“You’re going to let them play soldiers?” said Vimes.
“Oh, Commander Vimes,” said Mr. Burleigh, smiling. “As a military man yourself, you must—”
Sometimes people can attract attention by shouting. They might opt for thumping a table, or even take a swing at someone else. But Vimes achieved the effect by freezing, by simply doing nothing. The chill radiated off him. Lines in his face locked like a statue.
“I am not a military man.”
And then Burleigh made the mistake of trying to grin disarmingly.
“Well, commander, the helmet and armor and everything…It’s really all the same in the end, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.”
“Gentlemen…” Lord Vetinari put his hands flat on the table, a sign that the meeting had ended. “I can only repeat that tomorrow I shall be discussing the matter with Prince Khufurah—”
“I’ve heard good reports of him,” said Lord Rust. “Strict but fair. One can only admire what he’s doing in some of those backward regions. A most—”
“No, sir. You are thinking of Prince Cadram,” said Lord Vetinari. “Khufurah is the younger brother. He is arriving here as his brother’s special envoy.”
“Him? That one? The man’s a wastrel! A cheat! A liar! They say he takes bri—”
“Thank you for your diplomatic input, Lord Rust,” said the Patrician. “We must deal with facts as they are. There is always a way. Our nations have many interests in common. And of course it says a lot for the seriousness with which Cadram is treating this matter that he