Feet of Clay

of conducting his own defense.
    “How do you mean?” said Mr. Potts.
    I accept that the question of resurrecting the Ankh-Morpork succession has been raised several times recently,” said Mr. Slant.
    “Yes. By madmen,” said Mr. Boggis. “It’s part of the symptoms. Put underpants on head, talk to trees, drool, decide that Ankh-Morpork needs a king…”
    “Exactly. Supposing sane men were to give it consideration?”
    “Go on,” said Dr. Downey.
    “There have been precedents,” said Mr. Slant. “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?” said Mr. Boggis. “We put up some kind of advertisement? ‘Throne vacant, applicant must supply own crown’?”
    “In fact,” said Mr. Slant, ignoring this, “I recall that, during the first Empire, Genua wrote to Ankh-Morpork and asked to be sent one of our generals to be their king, their own royal lines having died out through interbreeding so intensively that the last king kept trying to breed with himself. The history books say that we sent our loyal General Tacticus, whose first act after obtaining the crown was to declare war on Ankh-Morpork. Kings are…interchangeable.”
    “You mentioned something about reaching an accommodation,” said Mr. Boggis. “You mean, we tell a king what to do? ”
    “I like the sound of that,” said Mrs. Palm.
    “I like the echoes,” said Dr. Downey.
    “Not tell ,” said Mr. Slant. “We…agree. Obviously, as king, he would concentrate on those things traditionally associated with kingship—”
    “Waving,” said Mr. Sock.
    “Being gracious,” said Mrs. Palm.
    “Welcoming ambassadors from foreign countries,” said Mr. Potts.
    “Shaking hands.”
    “Cutting off heads—”
    “No! No. No, that will not be part of his duties. Minor affairs of state will be carried out—”
    “By his advisors?” said Dr. Downey. He leaned back. “I’m sure I can see where this is going, Mr. Slant,” he said. “But kings, once acquired, are so damn’ hard to get rid of. Acceptably.”
    “There have been precedents for that, too,” said Mr. Slant.
    The Assassin’s eyes narrowed.
    “I’m intrigued, Mr. Slant, that as soon as the Lord Vetinari appears to be seriously ill, you pop up with suggestions like this. It sounds like…a remarkable coincidence.”
    “There is no mystery, I assure you. Destiny works its course. Surely many of you have heard the rumors—that there is, in this city, someone with a bloodline traceable all the way back to the last royal family? Someone working in this very city in a comparatively humble position? A lowly Watchman, in fact?”
    There were some nods, but not very definite ones. They were to nods what a grunt is to “yes.” The guilds all picked up information. No one wanted to reveal how much, or how little, they personally knew, just in case they knew too little or, even worse, turned out to know too much.
    However, Doc Pseudopolis of the Guild of Gamblers put on a careful poker face and said, “Yes, but the tricentennial is coming up. And in a few years it’ll be the Century of the Rat. There’s something about centuries that gives people a kind of fever.”
    “Nevertheless, the person exists,” said Mr. Slant. “The evidence stares one in the face if one looks in the right places.”
    “Very well,” said Mr. Boggis, “Tell us the name of this captain.” He often lost large sums at poker.
    “Captain?” said Mr. Slant. “I’m sorry to say his natural talents have thus far not commended him to that extent. He is a corporal. Corporal C. W. St. J. Nobbs.”
    There was silence.
    And then there was a strange putt-putting sound, like water negotiating its way through a partially blocked pipe.
    Queen Molly of the Beggars’ Guild had so far been silent apart from occasional damp sucking noises as she tried to dislodge a particle of her lunch from the things which, because they were still in her mouth and apparently attached, were technically her teeth.
    Now she was laughing. The hairs wobbled on every wart. “Nobby Nobbs?” she said. “You’re talking about Nobby Nobbs? ”
    “He is the last known descendant of the Earl of Ankh, who could trace his descent all the way to a distant cousin to the last king,” said Mr. Slant.