Good day, gentle readers...

I first posted this story at Skyehawke but, finding myself required to

re-post it there, I recalled that I had not posted it at yet. So,

here it is :)

I'm afraid this little trip into Discworld politics is rather improbable,

but one of the charms of fanfiction is taking the improbable and making

it work. Please, feel free to let me know how well I've done, gentle

readers.

Kind thanks to Mary and Lunar for their betas.

Yes, and of course, Night Watch spoilers. Caveat lector.

Defender of the Crown

ch. 1

"Monarchies who have found themselves bereft of a convenient monarch

have...obtained one. Some suitably born member of some other royal

line. After all, what is required is someone who, uh, knows the ropes,

as I believe the saying goes."

"Sorry? Are you saying we send out for a king?"

-- Feet of Clay

The gates of the city of Ankh-Morpork used to be formidable masses of

solid hardwood, meant to withstand siege, attack, panic, riot, and any

number of natural disasters. They had huge heavy bars that could be

dropped across them, like something out of a B-grade monster movie, of

the kind where a giant anthropoid terrorizes the natives into offerings

of fruit, meat, and blond virgins.

Fortunately, Ankh-Morpork's brush with moving pictures had been brief,

and the biggest anthropoid around was the Librarian, who lived /in/ the

city and only terrorized the pub owners into offerings of peanuts and a

free drink now and then. The city gates hadn't been locked shut for

years. Some of them hadn't been closed at all. It was so hard for

tourists and merchants to get into the city, if you locked them out.

Under the rule of the current Patrician, all arts, trades, and species

were welcome in Ankh-Morpork. If you hadn't got any money to buy with,

he reasoned, you almost certainly had something to sell.

It seemed like this Vetinari fellow had the right end of the stick,

thought Wright, as he passed under the arching stonework of the

Hubwards Gate. If you tried to stop people doing things, he'd

discovered, it all got very complicated very fast. Whereas, if you let

people do whatever they wanted, and then very gently told them what

that was, the world became ringingly simple. It had always worked for

him, anyhow.

Wright was a diplomat by education but a politician by nature, and he

approved of anything which simplified the political process.

In his mind, Wright had arranged thousands of revolutions, fought

hundreds of battles, and appointed many rulers -- Patricians, Kings,

Seriphs, Tyrants, the lot of them. Usually, as soon as he'd crowned a

new imaginary king, he began looking for ways to dethrone him. It was a

hobby that helped while away the long hours at official luncheons. In

reality, his job was to make sure, as Havelock Vetinari did -- albeit

on a smaller scale than the Patrician -- that today was pretty much

like yesterday.

Most of the recent todays had been frighteningly unusual, and not at

all like the yesterdays you used to get in the, er, good old days.

His home, Pseudopolis, was a ship at sea without a captain, sail, or

even anyone who knew what the pointy end was called. Because of the

damned clacks towers, most of the Disc already knew this, and the sort

of people flocking to the city were exactly the kind that Wright didn't

want there, because they Made Trouble.

Most of them were coming from Ankh-Morpork.

He didn't fancy his city in chaos. So, he'd gone to the senior

officials. They were nothing as organized as the heads of guilds, since

Pseudopolis didn't have many guilds, at least not as many as Ankh-

Morpork. He'd gone and gotten permission to come here, and find

someone who could possibly stop the madness.

"This is the city, boss," said the young man riding next to him, in a

hesitant sort of way.

"Aye. Ankh-Morpork. Get a good look, lads," he answered, apparently to

the empty darkness behind him. "We won't be here long. Spread out. Act

like tourists. Buy some naughty postcards, I hear they go cheap in the

big city. Have a few beers. Don't ask any questions. Just listen, very

hard."

"Yassir," said the lad on the horse next to him.

"Colter, pick up the information as it comes in and report to me as

discussed," Wright continued. "And now, lads, I'd better be on my way."

He walked his horse onward, carefully ignoring the shadows that crept

along behind him. When the lad Colter stopped, he continued, until he

was out of sight.

Wright had memorized select parts of a dodgy map of Ankh-Morpork that

one of the Sammies in Psuedopolis had brought with him as a souvenier.

There was a Sammie assisting Commander Rater, who was nominally in

charge of what passed for law in Psuedopolis right now, and another

one riding hard on the road to Uberwald, to speak with the Low King,

who was worried that the Pseudopolis-Schmaltzberg trade agreement

might go sour.

It was barely light by the time he'd stabled his horse at the inn, and

walked casually towards the Watch House. It was, he thought with a

smile, called Pseudopolis Yard. He hoped it was an omen of good things

to come.

Sam Vimes -- Duke, Knight, Watch Commander, and paranoid bastard -- was

halfway through a cigar, and two-thirds of the way through an amusing

letter from the Ankh-Morpork Citizens' League, regarding his allowing a

troll to patrol the streets of Decent Neighborhoods, when Carrot

knocked politely.

"Sir?" Carrot said, leaning in the doorway. "We're being watched, sir."

"I know," said Vimes, without looking up. "Saw him as I was coming in

this morning. Any pigeons for me?"

Carrot looked surprised. "Er...yes. Three." He held out a handful of

tiny paper slips. Vimes read them, one by one.

"I've been trying to bore him into showing himself," the Commander

continued. "I've been sitting up here for three hours, and I'm

getting bored too. If he's going to try to kill me, I wish he'd make

the effort and get it over with. But..." he tossed one of the slips

into an overflowing litter bin, "He's not an Assassin. Not a thief. Nor

is he a...freelance agent from the Shades."

--

There were a good many freelance agents in the Shades, who would

freely do just about anything, if the price was right.

--

"Might be an out-of-towner, sir."

"I'll just nip out the back way and see what he wants," Vimes said.

"Care for a bit of fresh air, Captain?"

"Of course, sir."

"Round up a couple of the lads, and we'll have some fun."

Wright sighed and leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The

damp of the city was already getting on his nerves.

He'd seen plenty of people going in and out of Pseudopolis Yard since

early that morning. There were swarms of dwarves, but he didn't need a

dwarf; also a handful of trolls, but he didn't need a troll, either. A

young woman with long ash-blond hair caught his eye, but only because

he was male and still breathing. And there was a big strapping bloke,

with bright red hair, who /looked/ the part, but also looked far too

young for Wright's purposes.

There were other humans, too, and that was where it got difficult. Some

of them seemed old enough, but not, well, not right. One old bugger had

fit the description, but he couldn't be it. He was dressed like a common

Watchman, who just happened to have bought a nice pair of boots.

A fat man with a mug of coffee stepped out onto the front stoop. He

/mustn't/ be the one. If he is, Wright thought, I'm sunk.

He watched as a youngish corporal, with polished helmet and shined

boots, walked past.

"All right, Ping?" the fat one asked.

"All right, sir," the one called Ping replied. "It's a good morning to

be a copper, sarge."

"How d'ye figure?" A sergeant, Wright could see his stripes now. That

ruled him out.

"Nobody's breaking the law," Ping replied. Wright stifled a snort of

laughter.

"Yet," said the sergeant, and pointed with his mug.

Wright turned just in time to see the old bugger and the strapping

bloke emerge from the house next door to the Yard -- how clever! -- and

nick the young man that Wright had paid to stand in an obvious place

and do an obvious spy job.

Clever, Ankh-Morpork, but not clever enough --

He didn't turn fast enough to see the two corporals who nicked him,

because they knocked him out before he had a chance. They weren't very

clever, but they were very good at following orders.

"I din't know nuffin! I swears!"

Carrot was not a terrifying man, when it came to interrogation. He

would have been offended to be called such. He just sat there, and

smiled, and made sure there wasn't anything else the suspect wanted to

tell him? No? Was he sure? Oh, perhaps there was?

It was the way the muscles bunched under his sleeves. And the smile.

There was something dangerous about a man with a smile as honest as

Carrot's.

"Are you sure, Legsy?" Carrot asked, still smiling. "You don't remember

a name, maybe?"

"E jus' give me a dollar an' said to watch the Yard! An just sit tight

if'n I were nicked! I tol' him it warnt any good!"

Vimes leaned against the back wall. Good Cop/Bad Cop was even better,

he thought, when the Good Cop -- i.e., Carrot -- was also Bad.

"D'you know who I am?" he asked Legsy Biffler, who was not enjoying his

stay with the Watch.

"Yessir," Legsy muttered. "Duke Vimes, sir."

"I'm /Commander/ of the City Watch, Legsy," Vimes said, moving forward.

He put his hands on the table. "I am, as you might say, the last court

of appeal before the Patrician." Legsy's eyes were rolling. "Have you

ever met the Patrician?"

"Nossir."

"He takes a very dim view of me having small fry like you up before

him. It's a waste of time. The Patrician's time is very valuable. When

it's wasted, he tends to take it out on the people standing in front of

him. Like you," Vimes finished brightly.

"I din't know nuffin!" Legsy shrieked. "E just paid me!"

Vimes narrowed his eyes. "He's not from around the city, is he?"

"Never seen 'im before!" Legsy's voice rose an octave. "Ad an accent!"

"Oh? Did he? What else are you holding out?" Vimes shouted. He liked

shouting. You knew where you were, when you shouted. At the center of

terrified attention, usually.

"Nuffin, I swears!"

"What accent?"

"Dunno!"

"Klatchian? Genua? Ramtops?"

"Dunnosir!"

There was a tap at the door. Vimes sighed.

"I told Cheery to tap when the other one came round. Looks like he'll

just have to answer my questions himself. Carrot, take Legsy down and

discharge him. Do him for loitering, fine him a dollar. I'll go see to

our mysterious foreign friend."

The corporals, while good lads, had been a little too enthusiastic

about arresting the Watch-House spy, and the man had been unconscious

for almost an hour. Now he was sitting up in the cell, rubbing his head

and scowling. Vimes saw him reach for a pocket.

"We took anything that might get you out, including daggers and

lock-picks," said Vimes, standing on the other side of the bars. "Looks

like Going Prepared for Burglary ought to be on the list somewhere,

right after Irritating The Watch and Being A Bloody Nusiance."

The man, who had been feeling his pockets, gave him a relieved smile.

"It's all right," he said. "Look, I can explain. It's nothing but a

misunderstanding."

"Well, my understanding is that you were paying one man to be the

obvious spy, while you did the real work. Now, while there are certain

criminal types in the Watch, we normally don't stir up anyone enough

that we get spies. Usually it's just outright Assassins."

"I'm not an Assassin!" the man said, aghast.

"I know," said Vimes. "I checked. You're not from our fair city, are

you? I recognize the accent, even if good old Legsy didn't.

Pseudopolis? Maybe one of the outlying areas?"

The man shut his mouth. Vimes' eyes glittered. "There are worse ways to

extract information than a Watchman talking at you," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like a Watchman /thumping/ you again!" yelled Vimes. "Ye gods!"

The man sighed. "I'm a Watchman too." he said. "Shouting doesn't

frighten me."

"What nick?"

"Pseudopolis proper, Headquarters. Captain Dick Wright. I'm here on

official business." The so-called Captain reached behind him --

"Hands where I can see them," Vimes snapped.

"I need to show you something your men missed," Self-Proclaimed-

Captain Wright said slowly. "I'm carrying a message from the head of

the Pseudopolis Watch to your Commander. Whom I demand to see," he

added.

"You want to see the Commander?" asked Vimes. "Why?"

He let Wright remove a small ivory-colored letter from a hidden

pocket under his arm. It had a large wax seal on it.

"Let's have it, then," Vimes said, holding out a hand.

Wright shook his head. "Commander's eyes only," he said. "I have

orders to deliver it into Duke Vimes' hands and no other."

Vimes could see that the impression on the wax seal was that of a Watch

badge.

"There are three men, trained by Ankh-Morpork Watch, in Pseudopolis,"

Vimes growled. "I could have an answer back by clacks within an hour,

whether or not a Captain Wright has been sent to Ankh-Morpork. I hold

all the cards, Captain."

"I outrank you!" the horrible man tried shouting back at him. He

grinned.

"Are you sure of that?" he asked. "You may consider my eyes to be

Mister Vimes', and my hands to be his hands. Now let's have the letter,

or you rot down here at the pleasure of the Duke. And he is not,

generally, a happy man. So you can either give it to me voluntarily, or

I can have a troll come down here and take it from you. And if it gets

damaged in process...the Duke will definitely not be pleased."

He saw Wright's internal battle. He saw the man thinking, hard. He saw

the letter --

"That's for the Duke!" Wright shouted, when Vimes' hand snaked through

the bars and took it, deftly, from his fingers. "His Grace will be

/very angry/ when he finds out you've read it!"

"Thank you for the warning," Vimes said gravely.

This was not being a good day for Pseudopolis City Watch Captain Dick

Wright.

He'd been knocked unconscious, and it felt like he'd been rolled down

the stairs before being thrown into this cell. They'd taken his tools

and weapons and Colter had his badge. He was in a chilly basement, and

beyond the bars he could see a strange man, who'd introduced himself as

'Igor', doing various frightening experiments. There was a glass tank

with eyeballs growing on vines in it. And now they'd taken the

letter...

Wright watched in horror as the Old Bugger examined the wax seal.

Watchmen were gossips, and if this man read it, if he told anyone its

contents, his position would be badly compromised.

The man didn't wear rank stripes; his armour was dented and old. He

looked strong but stringy, as though he'd spent most of his life doing

too much running without enough hot meals (Wright knew the feeling; all

Watchmen worth their pay did). There was a scar crossing his right eye,

and several more on his arms and legs. Probably a rank-happy corporal

who'd never make sergeant. And this...this stupid NCO was going to ruin

everything.

/Colter, where are you?/ he thought. The lad should have noticed the

trouble by now, and should be upstairs making a --

There was the sound of Colter's raised voice. Thank the gods. Old

Bugger glanced up the stairs, sniffed, and glanced back down at the

letter.

"That's my aide upstairs, he can verify who I am," Wright snapped. "I'm

warning you not to read that letter!"

"I'll brave your wrath," the man said, and slit the seal. Wright

watched in horror and anger as he scanned the contents of the letter.

At least his lips didn't move. He might be bright enough to realize how

much cacky he'd just climbed into, and keep his mouth shut.

Old Bugger's jaw dropped. "This is from your commander in Pseudopolis?"

he demanded.

"Now you see!" said Wright triumphantly.

"If this is a fake, you'd better come clean."

"Check the signatures if you don't believe me! That's Commander Rater's

badge on the seal!"

"Number twelve-twenty, I saw," he said. He looked up at Wright, then at

the stairs, where Colter's shouts could still be heard. "Why didn't

Rater come himself?"

"He trusted me to deliver it. I'm a relative of Mr. Vimes," Wright

growled. "He's going to go /spare/ when I tell him about this!"

"Yes, I daresay," Old Bugger answered, but the smugness had drained

from his voice. He looked like a man who was on the verge of either

bursting into tears or laying a punch on someone. Wright suspected the

latter. "PING!" Old Bugger shouted, up the stairs.

"YESSIR?" the reply drifted down. The corporal from earlier appeared

at the top of the stairwell.

"Find the young man who's shouting at everyone and put him in the

office. Get someone down to release Captain Wright, and send him up

too. They're Watchmen, so no tripping 'em or handcuffs or anything."

Old Bugger stuffed the letter under his breastplate. "I apologize for

your treatment, Captain. This letter will be on Mr. Vimes' desk shortly,

and you will have the opportunity to register your complaint with him

personally. In the meantime, thank you for your co-operation."

"I'll have you broken back down to Lance-Constable for this!" Wright

said, not at all appeased.

"I doubt it, but it'll be fun to see you try." Old Bugger ran up the

stairs, two at a time. At the top, he passed a tall, thick bodied --

Wright had heard they'd got a golem in the AMCW, but he'd never

believed it until now.

"I Am To Release You," said the golem, ponderously. "There Will Be No

Funny Business."

"None at all," said Wright, weakly, as Dorfl's seven-foot ceramic

figure blocked out the light.