I had thought that there was no introduction I could give to this
story, but I was wrong. Really, not an introduction so much
as a disclaimer. I take no responsibility for this. I don't know what
it means. I just write the damn things. :) The whole story stemmed
from the first scene, which I had intended to expand upon when
Sep and Charity and the rest elbowed their way in.

The dates of the last few in the Vimes line are taken from my
annotations on the Discworld Timeline, which can be found at the
L-Space Web. It assumes that Vimes is barely over forty when first
we meet him in Guards! Guards!

Oh, and the theory of eradication is true. Egyptians, of course, not
Djelibeybis. But you knew that. Fascinating, what our ancestors got
up to.

Suggestions on how I could make this an actual coherent fanfic are
welcome. :)

Bloodline

Dragon, King of Arms, sat behind the desk in the great records-room of
the College of Arms. His eyes, small pinpoints of light in the
darkness, gleamed.

"Not even the kings of old will be eradicated so completely," he said.
The man sitting opposite him held up a hand, stopping him.

"Are you /familiar/ with the Djelibeyban concept of eradication?" the
man asked.

"Yes, of course. Names erased from stelae, paintings, in the case of
engravings, of course, blasted out - "

"/No,/" the man said. "You do not understand."

Dragon gave him a mild look. He was going on a hundred years old, and
had seen many things in the decades since his...conversion.

"You do not remove the name from the history books. You remove the
glory," the man continued. "The Djelibeybis very carefully removed just
enough of the name so that it could still be read. They drew a...a line
through it. If you will."

"What are you suggesting?"

"By all means, remove Vimes from the ledgers of Society. We have
already seen to it that the ancestral home is to be torn down. We have
already confiscated his lands and assets from his children. But a trace
of him must be left."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. So that the people will remember. It must be remembered that a
murderer gets just punishment."

Dragon pursed his lips. His visitor was something of a romantic, but he
was also the city's new leader. And a man who had buried his
predecessor in five graves.

Just in case.

"He killed a king," the man continued. "However good his intentions
might have been. He killed a king."

"And now he has, in turn, been...deposed," Dragon said. "Indeed. I
believe I understand you now. A reminder to his...descendants, as
well."

"Oh, yes, the boy." The man flapped a hand, dismissing young Septimus
Vimes casually. "He's simple."

"Is he, my Lord?"

"He will cause no problems. I have arranged for his family to reside in
one of the...less glorious parts of the city. Charity Vimes is a proud
woman. She must be broken."

"Humiliated, perhaps?"

There was a small spark of pleasure in the man's eyes. "Certainly."

"And what shall I do with this?" Dragon asked, opening one of his
books, carefully. The family tree of the Vimes', written mainly in
the crabbed handwriting of the last King of Arms, rested on one
page. On the other was a somewhat splendid coat of arms. Vimes had
commissioned it when he became leader of the City Watch.

"Destroy it. Is it possible to prevent its resurrection?"

"Oh, yes. There's plenty of precedent."

"Do it."

***

Charity Vimes was a hard, thin woman, proud and strong like her
father, but unlike her father, she had friends.

Or she thought she'd had, anyhow.

She'd tried to call on half a dozen of her so-called friends, and
found them all 'not at home'. She was sure someone would take her in.
She was /sure/.

Now she stood outside of a small, paint-peeling cottage on Cockbill
street. None of them had. So she'd finally swallowed her pride and
come here.

They had given her the house outright, while she lived. That was
something. But such a house. Three rooms - a small kitchen-parlour-
workroom, a bedroom for her, and one for Septimus.

She had no money, she had no particular skills, and she had no family
save Septimus, ten years her junior, who had to depend on her. She had
no friends.

Septimus, barely ten, looked at the house calmly. "It's not so bad," he
said. "It'll be like when we went with dad on campaign."

"Hush yourself, Septimus."

He went into the house before her, his eyes traveling over the poky
fireplace, the old stove, the cheap furniture. He sat on the sagging
bed in the small cubbyhole of a bedroom, and looked out his window.

"I can see the whole street from here!" he called. Charity stepped
inside. She looked in the bedrooms. She touched the stove. She sat on
one of the two elderly chairs.

She burst into tears.

Septimus did not move. His father had taught him that this was
something that women occasionally did, without apparent reason, and it
was best ignored. He watched the street, instead. There were lads out
there, playing games. There were women talking, and men standing
outside of small, peeling houses like this one. None of them looked
particularly wealthy, but none looked very unhappy, either. The men
laughed. The children played. Septimus and Charity had never heard
their father laugh in actual amusement.

He got up and walked out into the street. The other children stopped
their game, which apparently involved pitching small chips of stone at
the gutter and seeing who could push the dead rat closest before it
fell into a deeper gap just between kerb and gutter.

"Who're you?" one boy demanded.

"My name's Sep," he said. "Who're you?"

"I'm Little," the boy replied. "Want to play?"

Septimus picked up a chip of stone and pitched it carefully. His father
had already begun his training in arms, and he was not a bad shot. The
rat teetered on the edge.

"Now you go, right?" he asked Little, who nodded. The boy pitched his
own stone, and the rat tumbled in.

"You win," said Little, resignedly. Septimus smiled a superior smile.
A Vimes always won.

"Wot's your mum do?" Little asked, as the troop of boys wandered down
the street in search of another dead rat.

"Don't have a mum."

"Who was that with you, then?"

"My sister Charity."

"Well, all right, what's /she/ do?"

"Dunno. Not much of anything. What's your mum do?"

"Takes in laundry. Dad works at Long Hogsmeat. Does your dad have a
trade?"

"My dad's dead," said Septimus. It was tinged with a hint of pride;
where he came from, most everyone had some gloriously dead uncle or
father or brother. "Look, there's one."

By the time he returned that night, Charity had pulled herself
together, possibly because she had no other choice. Someone had to
provide food for the two of them. Someone had to discover where
Septimus would go to school, now, and where they could get clothes,
and how the life of the Cockbill Street woman was led. She'd found a
clothes store up above the Shades that was willing to hire her because
she spoke well and knew a thing or two about fashion. She'd bought a
loaf of bread and some butter. Sep ate in silence.

"We'll be all right, Septimus, you'll see," Charity said.

"Course we will."

"I'm sure someone will think to help us out. They wouldn't be so cruel.
It's just for a little while."

"I like it here."

"You'll get tired of it, I think," she said sourly. "I know I will. I
already am."

She touched the pocket of her dress, where two sheets of folded
parchment lay. They had been sent anonymously; they were the escutcheon
and family tree of the Vimes bloodline.

Sooner or later, a Vimes always won out, in the end. Sometimes it might
just take a bit longer.

***

Sam Vimes stood on the creaking wood floor and stared at the wall,
thoughtfully.

Unlike most of the families in Cockbill street, the Vimes' had lived
in the same house - paying rent to some bastard up in the nice parts
of town - for generations. Over the years, several inhabitants of
the bedroom had scrawled their names on the thin plaster; in fact,
most had probably been written by proud parents. The list was fading,
towards the top, but could still be read.

Septimus Vimes, son of Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes, 1689
Perseverance Carleton, son of Charity Vimes Carleton, b. 1693
Justice Vimes, son of Septimus Vimes, b. 1698
Samuel Vimes, son of Justice Vimes, b. 1707
Eleanor Merry, wife of Samuel Vimes, 1730
Ellen Vimes, daughter of Samuel Vimes, b. 1730
Benjamin Vimes, son of Samuel Vimes, b. 1732
Virtue Vimes, son of Benjamin Vimes, b. 1756
Laurel Gafney, wife of Virtue Vimes, 1760

The list went on and on. Samuel traced his finger down it, until he
reached the final entries.

Gwilliam Vimes, son of Liam Vimes, b. 1900
Thomas Vimes, son of Gwilliam Vimes, b. 1925
Samuel Vimes, son of Thomas Vimes, b. 1946

He could hear voices in the other room; hushed, out of respect for his
presence. The bedroom was nothing more than a store-room now, but
somehow this was important. He placed his helmet on the floor, and
began to write.

Sybil Ramkin, wife of Samuel Vimes, 1985
Samuel Vimes II, son of Samuel Vimes, b. 1990

He retrieved his helmet and stood, walking back out into the
dressmaker's shop that was now where his home had been. They were
women from the neighbourhood and they remembered him, and even if
they hadn't, they were the sort who recognized and respected the
badge.

He nodded to the woman behind the counter, and walked out into the
street.

***

Septimus, his eyes bloodshot, hair dishevelled, walked out of his
bedroom. Charity and her husband Michael and the boy Perseverance
were seated at the table, waiting.

"It's a son," he said, hoarsely. Charity threw her arms around his
neck. "A baby son," he repeated. "I'm a father, Charity. I'm a father."

She laughed. Septimus swept Perseverance up into his arms, as Michael
Carleton thumped him on the back.

"His name is /Justice/," Septimus annouced. "After father."

Charity hugged him again. "Congratulations, Sep."

But Septimus was staring at the doorway. There was a man standing
there, who looked eerily like father. The same narrow face, yes, but
also the hard, wiry look of an angry man, and the dress of a Watchman
- or possibly a soldier. A uniform, anyway.

The man stood, looking down the street, and then glanced over his
shoulder. He seemed to look right through Septimus. Septimus could see
every detail; the strange boots, the odd cut of his trousers, the
copper badge on his breastplate.

Then there was a squall from the other room, as the newly-born Justice
Vimes complained bitterly about the general state of affairs in the
world, and the spectre faded as quickly as it had come.

"It's all right, he's only hungry," called his wife. Which was fine,
because Septimus had suddenly thought of something he had to do. He
walked into the tiny bedroom, past his wife and infant son, and
crouched by the wall where he'd signed his name years ago, and added
Charity's son when he'd been born. He wrote slowly.

Justice Vimes, son of Septimus Vimes, b. 1698

A Vimes always won out, sooner or later. And when they did, the names
would be here, waiting.

END