Terry Pratchett - Night Watch

“I thought you said you wanted to promote him?” said Dr Follett bluntly.

Lord Snapcase took a pinch of snuff, and blinked once or twice. “Yes,” he said. “Promote him, as they say, to glory.”

The crowd in the room were silent. One or two of its members were horrified. Some were impressed. You didn't stay at the top in Ankh-Morpork without developing a certain pragmatic approach to life, and Snapcase seemed to have got a grip on that with commendable speed.

“The barricade is coming down?” said the Patrician, shutting the snuffbox with a click.

“Yes, my lord,” said Dr Follett. “Because of the general amnesty,” he added, just to make sure the word was repeated. The Guild of Assassins had a code of honour as well as rules; it was an odd code, carefully constructed to fit their needs, but it was a code none the less. You didn't kill the unprotected, or servants, you did it up close, and you kept your word. This was appalling.

“Capital,” said Snapcase. “Ideal time. Streets full. Much confusion. Unreconstructed elements, vital message not passed on, left hand not knowing what right hand doing, difficulties of the situation, regrettable. No, my dear doctor, I do not intend to make any demands of your guild. Fortunately, there are those whose loyalty to the city is a little less…conditional. Yes. And now, please, there is much to be done. I shall look forward to meeting you again later.”

The crowd were ushered politely but firmly out of the room, and the doors shut behind them.

“It seems we're back at school,” muttered Dr Follett, as they were swept along the corridor.

“ Ave! Duci novo, similis duci seneci, ” murmured Mr Slant, drily as only a zombie can manage. “Or, as we used to say at school, ‘ Ave! Bossa nova, similis bossa seneca! ’” He gave a little schoolmasterly laugh. He felt at home with dead languages. “Of course, grammatically that is completely—”

“And that means…?” said Madam.

‘'Here comes the new boss, same as the old boss,”’ muttered Dr Follett.

“I counsel patience,” said Slant. “He's new in the job. He may settle into it. The city is good at working around problems. Give him time.”

“And we want someone who is decisive,” said someone in the hurrying crowd.

“We wanted someone who decides the right things,” said Madam. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, hurried down the main staircase and darted into an anteroom.

Miss Palm stood up as she came in. “Have they—” she began.

“Where's Havelock?” Madam demanded.

“Here,” said Vetinari, detaching himself from a shadow by the curtains.

“Take my coach. Find Keel. Warn him. Snapcase wants him dead!”

“But where is—” Madam pointed a threatening, trembling finger.

“Do it now or receive an aunt's curse!”

When the doors were shut Lord Snapcase stared at them for some moments, and then pressed the bell for his chief secretary. The man insinuated himself into the room via the private door.

“Everyone is settling in?” said Snapcase.

“Yes, my lord. There are a number of matters for your attention.”

“I am sure people would like to believe there are,” said Snapcase, leaning back in the chair. He shifted his weight from side to side. “Does this thing swivel?”

“I believe not, sir, but I shall have a skilled swiveller here within the hour.”

“Good. Now, what was the other thing…oh, yes. Tell me, are there any up-and-coming men in the Guild of Assassins?”

“I am sure there are, my lord. Would you like me to prepare dossiers on, say, three of them?”

“Do it.”

“Yes, my lord. My lord, various people are urgently seeking an audience with—”

“Let them wait. Now that we have the Patricianship, we mean to enjoy it.” Snapcase drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk for a moment, still staring at the doors. Then he said:

“My inaugural speech is prepared? Very sorry hear unexpected death Winder, overwork, new direction, et cetera, keep best of old while embracing best of new, beware dangerous elements, sacrifices must be made, et cetera, pull together, good of city?”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Add that I was particularly sad to hear tragic death Sergeant Keel, hope that fitting memorial to him would be the uniting of citizens of all shades of opinion in an effort to, et cetera, et cetera.”

The secretary made a few notes. “Quite, sir,” he said. Snapcase smiled at him.

“I expect you're wondering why I've taken you on even though you worked for my predecessor, eh?” he said.

“No, sir,” said the secretary, without looking up. He wasn't wondering firstly because he had a pretty good idea and secondly because there were in any case things he found it safest not to wonder about.

“It is because I recognize talent whenever it presents itself,” said Snapcase.

“It is good of you to say so, sir,” said the secretary smoothly.

“Many a rough stone can be polished into a gem.”

“Exactly, my lord,” said the secretary, and he was thinking Exactly, my lord, too, because he'd also found there were things he found it safest not to think, either, and these included phrases like What a little tit .

“Where is my new Captain of the Guard?”

“I believe Captain Carcer is in the rear courtyard, my lord, exhorting the men in no uncertain terms.”

“Tell him I want to see him here now ,” said Snapcase.

“Certainly, sir.”

The barricade was taking some while to dismantle. Chair legs and planks and bedsteads and doors and baulks of timber had settled into a tangled mass. Since every piece belonged to someone, and Ankh-Morpork people care about that sort of thing, it was being dismantled by collective argument. This was not least because people who had donated a three-legged stool to the common good were trying to take away a set of dining chairs, and similar problems.

And then there was the traffic. Carts that had been held up outside the city were trying to make their way to their destinations before eggs hatched or milk got so rotten it could get out and walk the rest of the way. If Ankh-Morpork had a grid, there would have been gridlock. Since it did not it was, in the words of Sergeant Colon, “a case of no one being able to move because of everyone else”. Admittedly, this phrase, while accurate, did not have the same snap.

Some of the watchmen had joined in the dismantling work, mostly to stop the fights that were breaking out among irate householders. But a group of them had congregated at the end of Heroes Street, where Snouty had set up a mess and a cocoa urn. There wasn't, in fact, much to do. A few hours ago they'd been fighting. Now the streets were so crowded that even patrols were impossible. Every good copper knows that there are times when the wise man keeps out of the way, and the conversation had turned to the kind of questions that follow victory, such as 1) is there going to be any extra money? and 2) are there going to be any medals? With an option on 3) which was never far from the watchmen's thoughts: are we going to get into trouble about this?

“An amnesty means we ain't,” said Dickins. “It means everyone pretends nothing really happened.”

“All right, then,” said Wiglet. “Are we going to get medals? What I mean is, if we've been…” he concentrated “…val-i-ant defenders of freedom, that sounds like medal time to me.”

“I reckon we should simply have barricaded the whole city,” said Colon.

“Yeah, Fred,” said Snouty, “but then that'd mean the bad people, hnah, would be in here with us.”

“Right, but we'd be in charge,” said Fred.

Sergeant Dickins puffed on his pipe, and said: “Lads, you're just flapping your mouths. There's been fighting, and here you are with all your arms and legs and walking around in the gods' good sunlight. That's winning, that is. You've won, see. The rest is just gravy.”