Feet of Clay

stared out of the window.
    Vetinari hadn’t bothered much in the way of bodyguards. He had used—that is, he still did use—food-tasters, but that was common enough. Mind you, Vetinari had added his own special twist. The tasters were well paid and treated, and they were all sons of the chief cook. But his main protection was that he was just that bit more useful alive than dead, from everyone’s point of view. The big powerful guilds didn’t like him, but they liked him in power a lot more than they liked the idea of someone from a rival guild in the Oblong Office. Besides, Lord Vetinari represented stability. It was a cold and clinical kind of stability, but part of his genius was the discovery that stability was what people wanted more than anything else.
    He’d said to Vimes once, in this very room, standing at this very window: “They think they want good government and justice for all, Vimes, yet what is it they really crave, deep in their hearts? Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like today.”
    Now, Vimes turned around. “What’s my next move, Fred?”
    “Dunno, sir.”
    Vimes sat down in the Patrician’s chair. “Can you remember the last Patrician?”
    “Old Lord Snapcase? And the one before him, Lord Winder. Oh, yeah. Nasty pieces of work, they were. At least this one didn’t giggle or wear a dress.”
    The past tense, thought Vimes. It creeps in already. Not long past, but already very tense.
    “It’s gone very quiet downstairs, Fred,” he said.
    “Plotting don’t make a lot of noise, sir, generally.”
    “Vetinari’s not dead, Fred.”
    “Yessir. But he’s not exactly in charge, is he?”
    Vimes shrugged. “No one’s in charge, I suppose.”
    “Could be, sir. There again, you never know your luck.”
    Colon was standing stiffly to attention, with his eyes firmly fixed on the middle distance and his voice pitched carefully to avoid any hint of emotion in the words.
    Vimes recognized the stance. He used it himself, when he had to. “What do you mean, Fred?” he said.
    “Not a thing, sir. Figure of speech, sir.”
    Vimes sat back.
    This morning, he thought, I knew what the day held. I was going to see about that damn’ coat of arms. Then there was my usual meeting with Vetinari. I was going to read some reports after lunch, maybe go and see how they’re getting on with the new Watch House in Chittling Street, and have an early night. Now Fred’s suggesting…what?
    “Listen, Fred, if there is to be a new ruler, it won’t be me.”
    “Who’ll it be, sir?” Colon’s voice still held that slow, deliberate tone.
    “How should I know? It could be…”
    The gap opened ahead of him and he could feel his thoughts being sucked into it. “You’re talking about Captain Carrot, aren’t you, Fred?”
    “Could be, sir. I mean none of the guilds’d let some other guild bloke be ruler now, and everyone likes Captain Carrot, and, well…rumors got about that he’s the hair to the throne, sir.”
    “There’s no proof of that, Sergeant.”
    “Not for me to say, sir. Dunno about that. Dunno what is proof,” said Colon, with just a hint of defiance, “But he’s got that sword of his, and the birthmark shaped like a crown, and…well, everyone knows he’s king. It’s his krisma.”
    Charisma , thought Vimes. Oh yes. Carrot has charisma. He makes something happen in people’s heads. He can talk a charging leopard into giving up and handing over its teeth and doing good work in the community, and that would really upset the old ladies.
    Vimes distrusted charisma. “No more kings, Fred.”
    “Right you are, sir. By the way, Nobby’s turned up.”
    “The day gets worse and worse, Fred.”
    “You said you’d talk to him about all these funerals, sir…”
    “The job goes on, I suppose. All right, go and tell him to come up here.”
    Vimes was left to himself.
    No more kings. Vimes had difficulty in articulating why this should be so, why the concept resonated in his very bones. After all, a good many of the patricians had been as bad as any king. But they were…sort of…bad on equal terms . What set Vimes’s teeth on edge was the idea that kings were a different kind of human being. A higher lifeform. Somehow magical. But, huh, there was some magic, at that. Ankh-Morpork still seemed to be littered with Royal this and Royal that, little old men who got paid a few pence a week to do a few meaningless chores, like the Master of the King’s Keys