Terry Pratchett - Jingo

“Valiant action?” said Downey. “I know Captain Carrot here ran towards the VIPs and Vimes headed for the tower, but frankly, Vimes, your strange behaviour beforehand—”

“Somewhat immaterial now,” said Lord Vetinari. Once again he adopted a slightly faraway voice, as if reporting to somebody else. “If Commander Vimes had not slowed down the procession, the wretch would undoubtedly have got a much better shot. As it was, the man panicked. Yes… the Prince, possibly, would accept that.”

“Prince?” said Vimes. “But the poor devil—”

“His brother,” said the Patrician.

“Ah. The nice one?”

“Thank you, commander,” said the Patrician. “Thank you, gentlemen. Do not let me detain you. Oh, Vimes… just a brief word, if you would be so good. Not you, Captain Carrot. I'm sure someone is committing some crime somewhere.”

Vimes remained staring at the far wall while the room emptied. Vetinari left his chair and went over to the window.

“Strange days indeed, commander,” he said.

“Sir.”

“For example, I gather that this afternoon Captain Carrot was on the roof of the Opera House firing arrows down towards the archery butts.”

“Very keen lad, sir.”

“It could well be that the distance between the Opera House and the targets is about the same, you know, as the distance between the top of the Barbican and the spot where the Prince was hit.”

“Just fancy that, sir.”

Vetinari sighed. “And why was he doing this?”

“It's a funny thing, sir, but he was telling me the other day that in fact it is still law that every citizen should do one hour's archery practice every day. Apparently the law was made in 1356 and it's never been—” {32} 32 In 1363, in England, Edward III — then in the early stages of the Hundred Years' War with France — ordered that all men should practise archery on Sundays and holidays; this law remained technically in force for some time after the longbow was effectively obsolete as a weapon of war.

“Do you know why I sent Captain Carrot away just now, Vimes?”

“Couldn't say, sir.”

“Captain Carrot is an honest young man, Vimes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you know that he winces when he hears you tell a direct lie?”

“Really, sir?” Damn .

“I can't stand to see his poor face twitch all the time, Vimes.”

“Very thoughtful of you, sir.”

“Where was the second bowman, Vimes?”

Damn! “Second bowman, sir?”

“Have you ever had a hankering to go on the stage, Vimes?”

Yes, at the moment I'd leap on it wherever it's heading , thought Vimes.

“No, sir.”

“Pity. I am certain you're a great loss to the acting profession. I believe you said the man had put the boards back after him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“ Nailed them back?”

Blast . “Yes, sir.”

“From the outside.”

Damn . “Yes, sir.”

“A particularly resourceful lone bowman, then.”

Vimes didn't bother to comment. Vetinari sat down at his desk, raised his steepled fingers to his lips and stared at Vimes over the top of them.

“Colon and Nobbs are investigating this? Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I were to ask you why, you'd pretend not to understand?”

Vimes let his forehead wrinkle in honest perplexity “Sir?”

“If you say ‘Sir?’ again in that stupid voice, Vimes, I swear there will be trouble.”

“They're good men, sir.”

“However, some people might consider them to be unimaginative, stolid and… how can I put this? …possessed of an inbuilt disposition to accept the first explanation that presents itself and then bunk off somewhere for a quiet smoke? A certain lack of imagination? An ability to get out of their depth on a wet pavement? A tendency to rush to judgement?”

“I hope you are not impugning my men, sir.”

“Vimes, Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs have never been pugn'd in their entire lives.”

“Sir?”

“And yet… in fact, we do not need complications, Vimes. An ingenious lone madman… well, there are many madmen. A regrettable incident.”

“Yes, sir.” The man was looking harassed and Vimes felt there was room for a pinch of sympathy.

“Fred and Nobby don't like complications either, sir.”

“We need simple answers, Vimes.”

“Sir. Fred and Nobby are good at simple.”

The Patrician turned away and looked out over the city.

“Ah,” he said, in a quieter voice. “Simple men to see the simple truth.”

“This is a fact, sir.”

“You are learning fast, Vimes.”

“Couldn't say about that, sir.”

“And when they have found the simple truth, Vimes?”

“Can't argue with the truth, sir.”

“In my experience, Vimes, you can argue with anything.”

When Vimes had gone Lord Vetinari sat at his desk for a while, staring at nothing. Then he took a key from a drawer and walked across to a wall, where he pressed a particular area.

There was a rattle of a counterweight. The wall swung back.

The Patrician walked softly through the narrow passageway beyond. Here and there it was illuminated by a very faint glow from around the edges of the little panels which, if gently slid back, would allow someone to look out through the eyesockets of a handy portrait.

They were a relic of a previous ruler. Vetinari never bothered with them. Looking out of someone else's eyes wasn't the trick.

There was a certain amount of travel up dark stairways and along musty corridors. Occasionally he'd make movements the meaning of which might not be readily apparent. He'd touch a wall here and here , apparently without thinking, as he passed. Along one stone-flagged passage, lit only by the grey light from a window forgotten by everyone except the most optimistic flies, he appeared to play a game of hopscotch, robes flying around him and calves twinkling as he skipped from stone to stone.

These various activities did not seem to cause anything to happen. Eventually he reached a door, which he unlocked. He did this with some caution.

The air beyond was full of acrid smoke, and the steady pop-pop sound which he had begun to hear further back along the passage was now quite loud. It faltered for a moment, was followed by a much louder bang, and then a piece of hot metal whirled past the Patrician's ear and buried itself in the wall.

In the smoke a voice said, “Oh dear.”

It didn't seem unhappy, but sounded rather like the voice one might use to a sweet and ingratiating little puppy which, despite one's best efforts, is sitting next to a spreading damp patch on the carpet.

As the billows cleared the indistinct shape of the speaker turned to Vetinari with a wan little smile and said, “Fully fifteen seconds this time, my lord! There is no doubt that the principle is sound.”

That was one of Leonard of Quirm's traits: he picked up conversations out of the air, he assumed everyone was an interested friend, and he took it for granted that you were as intelligent as he was.

Vetinari peered at a small heap of bent and twisted metal.

“What was it, Leonard?” he said.

“An experimental device for turning chemical energy into rotary motion,” said Leonard. “The problem, you see, is getting the little pellets of black powder into the combustion chamber at exactly the right speed and one at a time. {33} 33 In our world, an early attempt at an internal combustion engine used pellets of gunpowder, stuck to a strip of paper (rather like the roll of caps for a cap pistol). I understand that the attempt was just as successful as Leonard's. If two ignite together, well, what we have is the external combustion engine.”