Witnesses had said that it was uncanny: Rust would gallop into the jaws of death at the head of his men and was never seen to flinch, yet arrows and morningstars always missed him while invariably hitting the men right behind him. Bystanders—or rather people peering at the battle from behind comfortingly large rocks—had testified to this. Perhaps he was capable of ignoring, too, the arrows meant for him. But age could not be so easily upstaged, and the old man, while no less arrogant, had a sunken look.
Rust, most unusually, smiled at Vimes and said, “First time I’ve ever seen you down here, Vimes. Is Sybil going back to her roots, what?”
“She wants Young Sam to get some mud on his boots, Rust.”
“Well done, her, what! It’ll do the boy good and make a man of him, what!”
Vimes never understood where the explosive whats came from. After all, he thought, what’s the point of just barking out “What!” for absolutely no discernible reason? And as for, “What what!” well, what was that all about? Why what? Whats seemed to be tent-pegs hammered into the conversation, but what the hells for, what?
“So not down here on any official business, then, what?”
Vimes’s mind spun so quickly that Rust should have heard the wheels go round. It analyzed the tone of voice, the look of the man, that slight, ever so slight but nevertheless perceptible hint of a hope that the answer would be “no,” and presented him with a suggestion that it might not be a bad idea to drop a tiny kitten among the pigeons.
He laughed. “Well, Rust, Sybil has been banging on about coming down here since Young Sam was born, and this year she put her foot down and I suppose an order from his wife must be considered official, when!” Vimes saw the man who pushed the enormous wheelchair trying to conceal a smile, especially when Rust responded with a baffled “What?”
Vimes decided not to go with “Where” and instead said, in an offhand way, “Well, you know how it is, Lord Rust. A policeman will find a crime anywhere if he decides to look hard enough.”
Lord Rust’s smile remained, but it had congealed slightly as he said, “I should listen to the advice of your good lady, Vimes. I don’t think you’ll find anything worth your mettle down here!” There was no “what” to follow, and the lack of it was somehow an emphasis.
It was often a good idea, Vimes had always found, to give the silly bits of the brain something to do, so that they did not interfere with the important ones which had a proper job to fulfil. So he watched his first game of crockett for a full half-hour before an internal alarm told him that shortly he should be back at the Hall in time to read to Young Sam—something that with any luck did not have poo mentioned on every page—and tuck him into bed before dinner.
His prompt arrival got a nod of approval from Sybil, who gingerly handed him a new book to read to Young Sam.
Vimes looked at the cover. The title was The World of Poo. When his wife was out of eyeshot he carefully leafed through it. Well, okay, you had to accept that the world had moved on and these days fairy stories were probably not going to be about twinkly little things with wings. As he turned page after page, it dawned on him that whoever had written this book, they certainly knew what would make kids like Young Sam laugh until they were nearly sick. The bit about sailing down the river almost made him smile. But interspersed with the scatology was actually quite interesting stuff about septic tanks and dunnakin divers and gongfermors and how dog muck helped make the very best leather, and other things that you never thought you would need to know, but once heard somehow lodged in your mind.
Apparently it was by the author of Wee and if Young Sam had one vote for the best book ever written, then it would go to Wee. His enthusiasm was perhaps fanned all the more because a rare imp of mischief in Vimes led him to do all the necessary straining noises.
Later, over dinner, Sybil quizzed him about his afternoon. She was particularly interested when he mentioned stopping by to watch the crockett.
“Oh they still play it? That’s wonderful! How did it go?”
Vimes put down his knife and fork and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment or two, then said, “Well, I was talking to Lord Rust for some of the time, and I had to leave, of course, because of Young Sam, but fortune favored the priests, when their striker managed to tump a couple of the farmers by a crafty use of the hamper. There were several appeals to the hat man about this, because he broke his mallet in so doing, and in my opinion the hat man’s decision was entirely correct, especially since the farmers had played a hawk maneuver.” He took a deep breath. “When play recommenced, the farmers still had not found their stride but got a breathing space when a sheep wandered onto the pitch and the priests, assuming that this would stop play, relaxed too soon, and Higgins J. fired a magnificent handsaw under the offending ruminant … .”
Sybil finally stopped him when she realized that the meal was growing very cold, and said, “Sam! How did you become an expert on the noble game of crockett?”
Vimes picked up his knife and fork. “Please don’t ask me again,” he sighed. In his head meanwhile a little voice said, Lord Rust tells me there is nothing here for me. Oh dear, I’d better find out what it is, what?
He cleared his throat and said, “Sybil, did you actually look at that book I’m reading to Young Sam?”
“Yes, dear. Felicity Beedle is the most famous children’s writer in the world. She’s been at it for years. She wrote Melvin and the Enormous Boil, Geoffrey and the Magic Pillow Case, The Little Duckling Who Thought He Was an Elephant … .”
“Did she write one about an elephant who thought he was a duckling?”
“No, Sam, because that would be silly. Oh, she also wrote Daphne and the Nose Pickers and Gaston’s Enormous Problem won for her the Gladys H. J. Ferguson award—the fifth time she’s been given it. She gets children interested in reading, you see?”
“Yes,” said Vimes, “but they’re reading about poo and brain-dead ducklings!”
“Sam, that’s part of the commonality of mankind, so don’t be so prudish. Young Sam’s a country boy now, and I’m very proud of him, and he likes books. That’s the whole point! Miss Beedle also finances scholarships for the Quirm College for Young Ladies. She must be quite wealthy now, but I hear she’s taken Apple Tree Cottage—you can practically see it from here, it’s on the side of the hill—and I think it right, if you don’t mind, of course, that we invite her here to the Hall.”
“Of course,” said Vimes, though his dontmindedness was entirely due to the way his wife’s question had been phrased and the subtle resonances that Miss Beedle’s attendance was a done deal.
Vimes slept a lot better that night, partly because he could feel that somewhere in the universe nearby there was a clue waiting for him to pull. That made his fingers itch already.
In the morning, as he had promised, he took Young Sam horse riding. Vimes could ride, but hated doing so. Nevertheless, falling off the back of a pony onto one’s head was a skill that every young man should learn if only so that he resolved never to do it again.
The rest of the day, however, did not work out well. Vimes, suspicions filling his mind, was metaphorically and only just short of literally dragged by Sybil to see her friend Ariadne, the lady blessed with the six daughters. In actual fact there were only five visible in the chintzy drawing roo
m when Sybil and he were ushered in. He was feted as “the Dear Brave Commander Vimes”—he hated that shit, but under Sybil’s benign but careful gaze he was wise enough not to say so, at least not in those precise words. And so he grinned and bore it while they fluttered around him like large moths, and he waved away yet more teacakes, and cups of tea that would have been welcome were it not that they looked and tasted like what proper tea turns into shortly after you drink it. As far as Sam Vimes was concerned, he liked tea, but tea was not tea if, even before drinking, you could see the bottom of the cup.
Still worse than the stuff he was being offered was the conversation, which inclined toward bonnets, a subject on which his ignorance was not just treasured but venerated. And besides, his breeches were chafing: wretched things, but Sybil had insisted, saying that he looked very smart in them, just like a country gentleman. Vimes had to suppose that country gentleman had different arrangements in the groinal department.
There was, besides himself and Lady Sybil, a young Omnian curate, wisely dressed in a voluminous black robe, which presumably presented no groinal problems. Vimes had no idea why the young man was there, but presumably the young ladies needed somebody to fill with weak tea, suspect scones and mindless twittering conversation when someone like Vimes wasn’t there. And it seemed that when the subject of bonnets lost its fascination the only other topics were legacies and the prospects for forthcoming balls. And so, inevitably, given his restlessness in female company, a growing disaffection for urine-colored tea, and small talk that would barely be visible under a microscope, Vimes said, “Excuse me asking, ladies, but what is it that you actually, I mean actually do … For a living, I mean?”
This question elicited five genuinely blank looks. Vimes couldn’t tell the daughters one from the other, except the one called Emily, who certainly lodged in the mind and possibly also in doorways, and who now said, in the tones of one slightly out of her depth, “I do beg your pardon, commander, but I don’t think we understand what you just vouchsafed?”
“I meant, well, how do you make a living? Are any of you in employment? How do you make your daily crust? What work do you do?” Vimes could pick up nothing from Sybil, because he couldn’t see her face, but the girl’s mother was staring at him with gleeful fascination. Oh well, if he was going to get it in the neck he might as well get it all the way down. “I mean, ladies,” he said, “how do you make your way in the world? How do you earn your keep? Apart from bonnets, do you have any skills—like cookery, for example?”
Another daughter, quite possibly Mavis, but Vimes was guessing, cleared her throat and said, “Fortunately, commander, we have servants for that sort of thing. We’re gentlewomen, you see? It would be quite, quite unthinkable for us to go into trade or commerce. The scandal! It’s just not done.”
By now there appeared to be a competition to see who could terminally baffle who, or possibly whom, first. But Vimes managed to say, “Don’t you have a sister in the timber business?”
It was amazing, he thought, that neither their mother nor Sybil was as yet adding anything to the conversation. And now another sister (possibly Amanda?) looked about to speak. Why in the world did they all wear those silly diaphanous dresses? You couldn’t hope to do a day’s work in something as skimpy as that. Amanda (possibly) said carefully, “I’m afraid our sister is a bit of an embarrassment to the family, your grace.”
“What, for getting a job! Why?”
Another one of the girls, and Vimes was in fact getting really confused at this point, said, “Well, commander, she has no hope of making a good marriage now … er, not to a gentleman.”
This was becoming a tangle and so Vimes said, “Tell me, ladies, what is a gentleman?”
After some whispered conversation a sacrificial daughter said, very nervously, “We understand the gentleman is a man who does not have to sully his hands by working.”
Adamantium is said to be the strongest of all metals, but it would have bent around the patience of Sam Vimes as he said, with every syllable carefully smelted, “Oh, a layabout. And how do you go about snagging such a gentleman, pray?”
Now the girls looked as if they were indeed praying. One of them managed to say, “You see, commander, our dear late father was unlucky in the money market, and I’m afraid that until the death of Great-aunt Marigold, of whom we have expectations, there is, alas, no money for a dowry for any of us.”
The heavens held their breath while the concept of a dowry was explained to Sam Vimes, and ice formed on the windows as he sat in strangulated thought.
At last, he cleared his throat and said, “Ladies, the solution to your problem, in my opinion, would be to get off your quite attractive backsides, go out there in the world and make your own way! A dowry? You mean some man has to be paid to marry you? What century do you think you’re living in? Is it just me, or is it the most bloody stupid thing you could ever imagine?” He glanced at the beautiful Emily and thought, good grief, men would line up on the lawn to fight one another, my dear. How come no one’s ever told you? Gentility is all very well, but practicality has its uses. Get out in the world and let the world see you and it might find a new word in its vocabulary such as, perhaps, “wow!” Aloud he continued, “Honestly, there are lots of jobs out there for a young lady with her wits about her. The Lady Sybil Free Hospital is always on the lookout for sharp girls to train as nurses, for example. Good pay, very fetching uniforms, and a fine chance of snagging a skilled young physician who is on the way to the top, especially if you get your boot behind him. Plus, of course, as a nurse you inherit an amazingly large amount of amusing and embarrassing stories about things which people put … Perhaps this is not the time, but anyway, there is also the possibility of becoming matron if you reach the specified weight. A very responsible job, of use to the community at large and giving you at the end of a long day the satisfaction that you have done some good in the world.”
Vimes looked around at the pink and white faces contemplating a jump into the unknown and continued. “Of course, if you really want to stick with bonnets, then Sybil and I own a decent property in Old Cobblers, in the big city, which is standing empty. Used to be a tough area, but the upwardly mobile trolls and vampires are moving in right now, and the heavy dollar and the dark dollar are not to be sneezed at, especially because they’ll pay top dollar for what they want. Quite a sophisticated area, too. People actually put tables and chairs out on the pavement and they don’t always all get stolen. We could let you have it rent free for three months to see how you do and then maybe you’d have to learn the concept of rent, if only for your self-respect. Trust me, ladies, self-respect is what you get when you don’t have to spend your life waiting for some rich old lady to pop her clogs. Any takers?”
Vimes took as an optimistic sign the fact that the girls were staring at one another with what could only be called a wild surmise at the prospect of not being totally useless ornaments, and so he added, “And whatever you do, stop reading bloody silly romantic novels!”
There was, however, a pocket—or possibly purse—of resistance to the revolution. One girl was standing by the curate as if she owned him. She looked at Vimes defiantly and said, “Please don’t think me forward, commander, but I’d rather like to marry Jeremy and help him in his ministry.”
“Very good, very good,” said Vimes. “And you
love him and he loves you? Speak up, the pair of you.” They both nodded, red with embarrassment, each with one eye on the girl’s mother, whose wide grin suggested that would be a definite plus. “Well then, I suggest you get yourselves sorted out, and you, young man, would be advised to find a better-paying job. Can’t help you with that, but there are loads of religions these days, and if I were you I’d impress some bishop somewhere with my common sense, which is what a clergyman needs above everything else … Well, nearly everything else, and remember there’s room at the top … Although in the case of religion, not right at the top, eh?” Vimes thought for a moment and added, “But maybe the best idea, ladies, might be to take a look around a bit until you find some lad that’s got the makings of a successful man, noble or not, and if he suits then get behind him, support him as necessary, help him up when he’s down, and generally be around when he looks for you, and make certain that he’ll be around when you look for him. Well, if both of you put your backs into it then it might turn out to be something good. It has certainly worked once before, didn’t it, Sybil?”
Sybil burst out laughing and the overwhelmed girls nodded dutifully as if they actually understood, but Vimes was gratified to feel a gentle little prod from Lady Sybil that offered hope that he was not going to pay too high a price from his wife for speaking his mind to these precious flowers.
He looked around as if seeking to tidy things up. “Well, that seems to be that, yes?”
“Excuse me, commander?” It took Vimes some time to see where the voice had come from; this daughter hadn’t spoken a word all afternoon, but had occasionally scribbled in a notebook. Now she gazed at him with a look somewhat brighter than those of her sisters.
Discworld 39 - Snuff Page 7
