Jingo

How should I know how to talk diplomatically?
    “And now I must go and have a word with Lady Selachii,” said Lady Sybil. “You’ll be all right, will you? You keep yawning.”
    “Of course. Didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all.”
    “You promise not to run away?”
    “ Me ? I never run—”
    “You ran away before the big soirée for the Genuan ambassador. Everyone saw you.”
    “I’d just got news that the De Bris gang were robbing Vortin’s strongroom!”
    “But you don’t have to chase everyone, Sam. You employ people for that now.”
    “We got ’em, though,” said Vimes, with satisfaction.
    He’d enjoyed it immensely, too. It wasn’t just the pursuit that was so invigorating, with his velvet cloak left behind on a tree and his hat in a puddle somewhere, it was the knowledge that while he was doing this he wasn’t eating very small sandwiches and making even smaller talk. It wasn’t proper police work, Vimes considered, unless you were doing something that someone somewhere would much rather you weren’t doing.
    When Sybil had disappeared into the crowd he found a handy shadow and lurked in it. It enabled him to see almost the whole of the University’s Great Hall.
    He quite liked the wizards. They didn’t commit crimes. Not Vimes’s type of crimes, anyway. The occult wasn’t Vimes’s beat. The wizards might well mess up the very fabric of time and space but they didn’t lead to paperwork, and that was fine by Vimes.
    There were a lot of them in the hall, in all their glory. And there was nothing finer than a wizard dressed up formally, until someone could find a way of inflating a Bird of Paradise, possibly by using an elastic band and some kind of gas. But the wizards were getting a run for their money, because the rest of the guests were either nobles or guild leaders or both, and an occasion like the Convivium brought out the peacock in everyone.
    His gaze went from face to chatting face, and he wondered idly what each person was guilty of. *
    Quite a few of the ambassadors were there, too. They were easy to pick out. They wore their national costumes, but since by and large their national costumes were what the average peasant wore they looked slightly out of place in them. Their bodies wore feathers and silks, but their minds persistently wore suits.
    They chatted in small groups. One or two nodded and smiled to him as they passed.
    The world is watching , Vimes thought. If something went wrong and this stupid Leshp business started a war, it’s men like these who’d be working out exactly how to deal with the winner, whoever it was. Never mind who started it, never mind how it was fought, they’d want to know how to deal with things now . They represented what people called the “international community.” And like all uses of the word “community,” you were never quite sure what or who it was.
    He shrugged. It wasn’t his world, thank goodness.
    He sidled over to Corporal Nobbs, who was standing by the main doors in the sort of lopsided slouch which was the closest a living Nobbs could come to attention.
    “All quiet, Nobby?” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
    “Yessir.”
    “Nothing going on at all ?”
    “Nossir. Not a pigeon anywhere, sir.”
    “What, nowhere? Nothing?”
    “Nossir.”
    “There was trouble all over the place yesterday!”
    “Yessir.”
    “You did tell Fred he was to send a bird if there was anything at all?”
    “Yessir.”
    “The Shades? There’s always something—”
    “Dead quiet, sir.”
    “ Damn !”
    Vimes shook his head at the sheer untrustworthiness of Ankh-Morpork’s criminal fraternity.
    “I suppose you couldn’t take a brick and—”
    “Lady Sybil was very speffic about how you was to stop here,” said Corporal Nobbs, staring straight ahead.
    “Speffic?”
    “Yeah, sir. She come and have a word with me. Gave me a dollar,” said Nobby.
    “Ah, Sir Samuel!” said a booming voice behind him, “I don’t think you’ve met Prince Khufurah yet, have you?”
    He turned. Archchancellor Ridcully was bearing down on him, towing a couple of swarthy men. Vimes hurriedly put on his official face.
    “This is Commander Vimes, gentlemen. Sam…no, I’m doing this the wrong way round, aren’t I, got the protocol all wrong—so much to sort out, the Bursar’s locked himself in the safe again, we don’t know how he manages to get the key in there with him, I mean, it’s not even as if it’s got a keyhole