Defender of the Crown

ch. 4

"What's this crown with a dagger through it?"

"Oh, a traditional symbol, ah-ha. Indicates his role as defender of

the crown."

-- Feet of Clay

The clacks had revolutionized news and the way it was told. Everyone

knew that. But things could only move as fast as a horse, when you were

talking international politics. People had to have time to get places.

The messages from Rater, at regular intervals as they passed other

clacks towers, included updates on the state of affairs in the troubled

city of Pseudopolis. According to him, everyone was, essentially,

waiting. Of course nobody would admit what they were waiting /for/...

Colter, who rode ahead of the contingent -- far ahead -- was sending

his own clacks messages, or at any rate, getting someone to send them

for him. Wright accepted, dealt with, and replied to them with all the

alacrity and briskness of the Patrician. It struck Vimes as odd, that

this little solution hadn't come from the capable young Captain. He

certainly thought crookedly enough for it.

The constable returned to them the morning before they arrived in

Pseudopolis. The Watchmen were camped on an open plain; Wilikins,

traveling with Lady Sybil and clinging tenaciously to civilization, had

erected a palatial tent for his employers, which the officers had been

trying, for the third or fourth time, to disassemble in an orderly

fashion. It looked as though they'd given up, for the moment, and were

getting ready to ride into the city.

"Good news and bad," Colter reported to Wright and Vimes, who were

sitting around an early-morning fire, drinking harsh coffee from

tin cups. "On one hand, the bunting's out. Someone's definetely going

to get crowned soon."

"But?" Wright prompted.

"But they're expecting someone a bit more...kingly," Colter said

hesitantly. "Beg yer pardon, Commander."

"I take it as a compliment," Vimes said gravely.

"And there are a couple of, um, contenders. Not outright, see, but if

they don't like the look of things, someone's also going to get

beheaded today." Colter looked nervous. Vimes didn't blame him.

"Let's make sure they like the look of things," he said, trying to

reassure the young officer. "Run along, Colter. Carrot'll have some

things for you."

"We're going to be toast," Wright said quietly. "When we pull this off,

our heads are going to look really good on some silver platters."

"Nonsense. We've got royalty on our side," said Vimes. Wright thought

privately that they needed to invent a new word for the brand of humor

the Commander employed. Sarcasm didn't seem to do it justice. Sarcavern,

perhaps, or sarcanyon.

Wright didn't like being out of control, and he had found himself

following, rather than leading, since he'd been nicked by two corporals

in Ankh-Morpork. It was good strategy, he'd thought, sending the

lower-ranking officers to grab him, as if he wasn't worth Sam Vimes'

time. It reminded Wright that he still had lessons to learn.

"Right then." Vimes looked around, and turned to face the Ankh-Morpork

officers. "Let's show these Pseudopolis lads what Ankh-Morpork coppers

can do."

"Erm...find a nice dry place to have a smoke?" Ping asked. "Or did you

mean mump a free beer from the Bunch of Grapes?"

"No, Ping." Vimes sighed. "Carrot?"

"Just coming, sir," Carrot answered, leading two horses. He had a pair

of long, sturdy sticks in one hand, each wrapped in cloth. He passed

one to Colter, who unfurled it to reveal the Pseudopolis flag. He

handed the reins of one of the horses to Vimes, and stuck the other

flag in a loop on his own saddle.

A horse looks a lot taller than normal, when you're trying to get onto

its back. Say what you like about camels, but at least they sit down

for their passengers.

"Don't you look smart!" Sybil exclaimed, as the Watch rode past the

coach. Vimes, who'd forgotten how uncomfortable a saddle could be, gave

her a cheerful grimace. Behind him, six of the seven Ankh-Morpork

officers were managing to stay in what, if you were drunk, could be

considered a double-line. For a given value of 'line'.

The Pseudopolis lads watched, discussed it, and finally broke rank.

Each Pseudopolis horse paired up with an Ankh-Morpork horse; somehow

they all managed to get into a formation behind the coach.

Carrot and Colter, now proudly flying the Ankh-Morkork and Pseudopolis

flags, rode in front, flanking Vimes and Wright. His Grace was

reluctantly wearing his dress armour. Wright's own armour shone. They

looked like the biggest idiots who ever rode a horse, in Vimes' opinion.

"Let's go make a king," Vimes sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

It was everything that they'd dreaded, and more. Samuel Vimes, who

hated the monarchy with a devoutness approaching religion, had never

seen so much bunting in his entire life.

"Told you," Colter whispered.

"Smile, Colter," Wright whispered back.

People were lining the streets to see the Duke of Ankh, presumably the

next King of Pseudopolis, and his honour guard. Carrot smiled and waved.

Wright, who had to lead them to the palace, looked straight ahead.

Vimes, who had to make sure his horse didn't stop to eat geraniums out

of peoples' gardens, also looked straight ahead.

We probably look more royal than Carrot does, Vimes thought. And he's

about as royal as you get.

But that was why he'd brought the lad. As Colon never failed to point out,

Carrot had Krisma. Bags of it. Plus he had a punch like a troll and a very

sharp sword, which are important aspects of anyone attempting to perpetrate

a coup.

Several lean barbarians, on seeing the Duke, his cousin, his honour guard,

and Carrot, slunk away towards the city gates. Several dapper lords, mostly

local Pseudopolis stock, saw the Duke's sharp sword and several scars, and

decided this king business was beneath them.

Some local priest or other stood on the steps of what must be the palace,

surrounded by the sort of people Vimes knew, in his bones, had signed that

stupid letter Wright had delivered. Rater was one of them.

"Halt!" Wright commanded. The horses obeyed, more or less.

"Dismount!" Carrot shouted. Sixteen pairs of boots hit the street. The

door of the coach opened, and Sybil stepped out, holding Sam. The crowds

were thick, here; they murmured excitedly.

"Your Grace." The priest gave him a pious smile. "I would like to welcome

you to Pseudopolis."

"Thank you," Vimes said curtly, as Visit led his and Wright's horses

away. "This is my wife, the Duchess of Ankh, and my son, the Viscount."

Sybil curtsied low. Nobody could pull off a classy entrance like Sybil.

"Captain of the City Watch, Carrot Ironfoundersson; my cousin, Dickson

Wright, Bastard Earl of Ankh, and his aide, Constable Michael Colter."

Wright and Colter bowed stiffly.

He knew that, behind him, several of the 'honour guard' were trying to

keep a straight face. So was he, if it came to that.

"Er...of course. We welcome your family with open arms," the priest

said, all evidence pointing to the contrary.

"I understand you're in need of a king," Vimes continued.

"Yes, your Grace -- "

"When is the coronation?"

The priest was taken aback. This was not according to the script. "Ah.

Yes. We have been in preparation since the regrettable death of the

king's son -- "

"Good! We'll do it now, get it over with, and I can get my family

settled in."

"Yes, of course, your Grace," the priest said smoothly. The rest of

what Vimes had come to think of as the Monarchy Election Board were

exchanging nervous glances. /You wanted a strong leader, Vimes

thought. /Shouldn't have let young Wright sell you on the idea, should

you? Too late now.../

The doors of the palace opened, and people flooded in, carefully

forming an island of empty space around the future king. Vimes felt

Ping touch his elbow.

"Take Sybil and Sam and get them out of the city," he said, without

looking around. "I don't want my wife and son within five miles of this

place when everything goes pear-shaped."

"Moving as fast as we can, sir," Ping replied, and vanished along with

Colter.

"Now we walk slowly," Vimes said to Wright and Carrot, when the crowds

finally began to thin out. The palace was filled to capacity. They

moved through it, side-by-side, hands on swords. "You give them time to

see us three together. Colter speak to the priest?"

"Didn't need to. He's just about blind."

"I suppose that's best. You think everyone heard the introductions?"

"Colter's been talking to people since yesterday morning."

"Don't suppose I could poach him from you?"

"Not a chance. Sir."

Vimes, with the light-headedness of those about to die, realized that

they were /proceeding/ down the long aisle towards the throne of

Pseudopolis. A hastily-retrieved crown sat slightly askew on one of the

throne's cushions. A man so old he could pass for a zombie was standing

next to it.

"Last chance to back out," Colter said, out of the corner of his mouth.

"Sure you don't want to rule?"

"I have never," said Vimes distantly, "been more sure of anything in my

life."

"The Gods bless you and keep you, your highness," the old man mumbled.

By his costume, Vimes guessed he was the same religion as the young

priest. "We are not long on ceremony in Pseudopolis. We welcome our new

ruler and wish him well."

"Your king thanks you," Vimes said loudly.

"If you would be seated, your highness..." the priest intoned, picking

up the crown.

only those closest could actually see /which/ man sat down, but they

weren't slow on the uptake.

The first protests hit their ears just as the crown touched Dickson

Wright's bared head.

"Behold the new king of Pseudopolis!" the priest quavered. "Long live

the king!"

Half the audience cheered; the other half shouted in anger.

This was where it got dicey. Vimes drew his sword, just as Carrot did.

Damned if he was going to repeat what the priest said, as Carrot was

doing, however.

The crowd fell silent at the combination of two drawn swords and the

quiet, all-knowing smile of the man on the throne.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a soft, gentle voice. Colter, who

apparently could be everywhere at once, emerged from a side-hallway.

"May I present to you his royal highness, King Dickson the First, and

the defender of the crown, Duke Samuel Vimes."

Defender of the bloody crown, Vimes thought. That just about takes the

royal cake.

"You tricked us!"

The Monarchy Election board were seated in front of Vimes, who stood,

arms crossed, in front of Wright, in the King's Chambers. Carrot stood

next to him. It was very hard to yell at Carrot, so they were yelling

at Vimes. It was not much easier.

"You wanted a king," Vimes said mildly.

"We wanted you!"

"But you've got a king, now. I should think that's what counts. I went

to a lot of trouble to get you one."

"Through guile and deception!" a lower-order lord snapped.

"Yes, those are habits of mine," sighed Vimes. "Carrot, when I'm done

here, make a note. Must work on reducing amount of guile I practice.

Bad for the digestion."

"Noted, sir," Carrot said calmly. He didn't have sword-in-hand as they

had done at the coronation. He didn't need it. The overtones of

weaponry in the room were quite clear. We are armed, said the guards'

stance, and you are not.

"We did not send emissaries to Ankh-Morpork for you to put some

insolent young upstart on the throne!" another man yelled.

Commander Rater, Vimes noticed, was keeping silent. He was a good man,

by all accounts, and was probably more proud of his protege's

appointment to royalty than he was afraid of any royal repercussions.

Probably.

"He is the Bastard Earl of Ankh," Vimes continued, not quite believing

what he said. "Kin to the man you wanted for king." He glanced at

Wright, and continued. "I'd be a bit cautious about who I called

insolent, if I were you."

"I..." the man's face drained of colour. "We were not consulted in this

matter!"

"I didn't think a king needed to consult about a crowning," Vimes

growled. "I thought he came and bloody fought for the crown, winner take

all. And I'm /sure/ the good people of Pseudopolis don't want to know

that their leaders didn't consult /them/ before offering some old sod in

Ankh-Morpork the throne, when they had their very own Earl around." He

held up the letter they'd sent him. The more thoughtful members of the

Board were already smiling ingratiatingly at the king, who was distinctly

not smiling back.

"Tell me, Captain Carrot, how are my people taking the news of my

coronation?" asked King Dickson I, royally.

"I'm told there's dancing. And quite a bit of drinking. Also someone's

selling coronation mugs."

"With my name on them?"

"Yes."

"Well, that practically makes it irrefutable. Wouldn't you say, Tanner?"

The man who'd called him an insolent young upstart turned a shade

paler, if that were possible. "I...look, it's only crockery!" he said

to his companions, who were now giving him the sort of wide berth

generally associated with someone shouting that the gods don't exist on

top of a tall hill, in a thunderstorm. "Are we going to let a blind

priest and a painted mug establish rule in this town?"

"Well, if those aren't enough..." Vimes put his hand, very casually, on

his sword-hilt.

"I think, begging your pardon, Your Grace, that His Highness, King

Dickson, has an excellent point." The smooth-talking young priest

again. "If the people approve of him, how can we say nay?"

"He's got a wife, and a couple of boys to carry on the crown. /And/ no

apparent history of mental instability. A good bargain, if you like

that kind of thing," said Vimes. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen -- and

ladies," he said, nodding to a few senior Seamstresses in the back of

the room, "I promised my wife some sight-seeing. Good day."

He touched his helmet, bowed, and walked out. Behind him, there was the

sound of several people exhaling nervously.

"Now," came Wright's voice from the King's Chambers, "I believe I have

some ruling to do. Let's get a little law around the place, shall we?"

"You think he'll be a good king?" Carrot asked, following his Commander

down the hallway. Their boots echoed on the stone floor.

"He'll be a damn sight better than I would."

"Oh, I don't know about that, sir," Carrot replied, his big honest

forehead wrinkling.

"I do, Carrot. Wright knows how to play the games. I just want to clean

up the world. Worst kind of man to rule." Vimes turned out at the

courtyard, stepping into the light. "I think he'll do all right. But

then, what do I know? Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes was buried in five

graves, after only six months. And he wasn't even king."

"You're not him, though, sir."

Vimes grinned and lit a cigar. "No, you're right there. Come on,

Carrot, they're waiting for us."

King Dickson only found the letter, two weeks after the coronation,

because he wanted to get the dents hammered out of his armour, for

occasions when he might need it. The courier's pouch, which he'd worn

strapped to his breastplate when he wasn't in plainclothes, seemed too

thick to be empty. He unfolded the dingy sheet of paper, revealing Sam

Vimes' scrawling curly handwriting. It was dated the day the

Ankh-Morpork contingent had left Pseudopolis.

"Dickson --

Crowns are heavy things. Be careful not to wear it too often. All the

weight crushes the brain.

If you have to be a king, as Carrot says, best be a good king. Maybe

you can outlaw the tendency of Pseudopolis folk to bend at the knees,

in a few decades. Remember that you're an officer of the Watch and

have a reputation to uphold.

Be told. I have twenty years on you and I know what I'm talking about.

If I hear about any foolishness in Pseudopolis, rest assured, you're

not too royal to feel the flat of my sword.

Sam'l Vimes, Cmdr, AMCW

PS: Sybil sends her love."

Wright's wife, Her Royal Highness Queen Maggie, couldn't get him to

stop laughing for a full ten minutes.

END