Jingo

There was, indeed, a jug of hot water on the marble washstand.
    He looked at the face in the mirror. Unfortunately, it was his. Perhaps if he shaved it first…? And then he could wash the bits that were left.
    Fragments of the night before kept on respectfully drawing themselves to his attention. It was a shame about that guard, but sometimes you just couldn’t stand and argue—
    He shouldn’t have done that with his badge. It wasn’t like the old days. He had responsibilities . He should’ve stayed on and made things just a little less—
    No. That never worked.
    He managed to get the lather on his face. The Riot Act! Good grief…He stropped his razor thoughtfully. Rust’s milky eyes stared out of his memory. Bastard! Men like that thought, they really thought, that the Watch was a kind of sheepdog, to nip at the heels of the flock, bark when spoken to and never, ever, bite the shepherd…
    Oh yes. Vimes knew in his bones who the enemy was.
    Except—
    No badge, no Watch, no job…
    Another memory arrived, late.
    Lather still dripping down his shirt, he pulled Vetinari’s sealed letter out of his pocket and slit it open with the razor.
    There was a blank sheet of paper inside. He turned it over, and there was nothing on the other side either. Mystified, he glanced at the envelope.
    Sir Samuel Vimes, Knight .
    Nice of him to be so precise about it, Vimes thought. What was the point of a message with no message? Some people might absentmindedly have slipped the wrong piece of paper in an envelope, but Vetinari wouldn’t. What was the point of sending him a note telling him he was a knight, for gods’ sake, he knew that embarrassing fact well enough—
    Another little memory burst open as silently as a mouse passing wind in a hurricane.
    Who’d said it? Any gentleman—
    Vimes stared. Well, he was a gentleman, wasn’t he? It was official.
    And then he didn’t shout, and he didn’t run out of the room. He finished shaving, had a wash and put on a change of underwear, very calmly.
    Downstairs, Sybil had cooked him a meal. She wasn’t a very good cook. This was fine by Vimes, because he wasn’t a very good eater. After a lifetime of street meals his stomach wasn’t set up right. What it craved was little crunchy brown bits, the food group of the gods, and Sybil reliably always left the pan too long on the dragon.
    She eyed him carefully as he chewed his fried egg and stared into the middle distance. Her manner was that of someone with a portable safety net watching a man on the high wire.
    After a while, as she watched him crack open a sausage, he said, “Do we have any books on chivalry, dear?”
    “Hundreds, Sam.”
    “Is there any one which tells you what…you know, what it’s all about? I mean, what you have to do if you’re a knight, say? Responsibilities and so on?”
    “Most of them, I should think.”
    “Good. I think I shall do a little reading.” Vimes hit the bacon with his fork. It shattered very satisfactorily.
    Afterward, he went into the library. Twenty minutes later, he came back out for a pencil and some paper.
    Ten minutes after that, Lady Sybil took him a cup of coffee. He was hidden behind a pile of books, and apparently deep in Life of Chivalrie . She crept out and went into her own study, where she settled down to update her dragon-breeding records.
    It was an hour later when she heard him step out into the hall.
    He was humming under his breath, tunelessly, with the faraway look of preoccupation that means that some Big Thought has required the shutting down of all non-essential processes. He was also reradiating the field of angered innocence that was, to her, part of his essential Vimesness.
    “Are you going out, Sam?”
    “Yes. I’m just going to kick some arse, dear.”
    “Oh, good . Just be sure you wrap up well, then.”

    The Goriff family trudged along silently beside Carrot.
    “I’m sorry about your shop, Mr. Goriff,” he said.
    Goriff shifted the load he was carrying. “We can start other shops,” he said.
    “We’ll certainly keep an eye on it,” said Carrot. “And…when all this is over, you can come back.”
    “Thank you.”
    His son said something in Klatchian. There was a brief family argument.
    “I appreciate your strength of feeling,” said Carrot, going red, “although I must say I think your language was a little strong.”
    “My son is sorry,” said Goriff automatically. “He did not remember that you speak Kl—”
    “No, I’m