sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:35 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-09 08:35 am
Entry tags:
Defender of the Crown: Epilogue; PG.
"You tricked us!"
The Monarchy Election board were seated in front of Vimes, who stood, arms crossed, in front of Wright in the King's Chambers. Carrot stood next to him. It was very hard to yell at Carrot, so they were yelling at Vimes. It was not much easier.
"You wanted a king," Vimes said mildly.
"We wanted you!"
"But you've got a king, now. I should think that's what counts. I went to a lot of trouble to get you one."
"Through guile and deception!" a lower-order lord snapped.
"Yes, those are habits of mine," sighed Vimes. "Carrot, when I'm done here, make a note. Must work on reducing amount of guile I practice. Bad for the digestion."
"Noted, sir," Carrot said calmly. He didn't have sword-in-hand as they had done at the coronation. He didn't need it. The overtones of weaponry in the room were quite clear. We are armed, said the guards' stance, and you are not.
"We did not send emissaries to Ankh-Morpork for you to put some insolent young upstart on the throne!" another man yelled.
Commander Rater, Vimes noticed, was keeping silent. He was a good man, by all accounts, and was probably more proud of his protege's appointment to royalty than he was afraid of any royal repercussions.
Probably.
"He is the Bastard Earl of Ankh," Vimes continued, not quite believing what he said. "Kin to the man you wanted for king." He glanced at Wright, and continued. "I'd be a bit cautious about who I called insolent, if I were you."
"I..." the man's face drained of colour. "We were not consulted in this matter!"
"I didn't think a king needed to consult about a crowning," Vimes growled. "I thought he came and bloody fought for the crown, winner take all. And I'm sure the good people of Pseudopolis don't want to know that their leaders didn't consult them before offering some old sod in Ankh-Morpork the throne, when they had their very own Earl around."
He held up the letter they'd sent him. The more thoughtful members of the Board were already smiling ingratiatingly at the king, who was distinctly not smiling back.
"Tell me, Captain Carrot, how are my people taking the news of my coronation?" asked King Dickson I, royally.
"I'm told there's dancing. And quite a bit of drinking. Also someone's selling coronation mugs."
"With my name on them?"
"Yes."
"Well, that practically makes it irrefutable. Wouldn't you say, Tanner?"
The man who'd called him an insolent young upstart turned a shade paler, if that were possible. "I...look, it's only crockery!" he said to his companions, who were now giving him the sort of wide berth generally associated with someone shouting that the gods don't exist on top of a tall hill in a thunderstorm. "Are we going to let a blind priest and a painted mug establish rule in this town?"
"Well, if those aren't enough..." Vimes put his hand, very casually, on his sword-hilt.
"I think, begging your pardon, Your Grace, that His Highness, King Dickson, has an excellent point." The smooth-talking young priest again. "If the people approve of him, how can we say nay?"
"He's got a wife, and a couple of boys to carry on the crown. And no apparent history of mental instability. A good bargain, if you like that kind of thing," said Vimes. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen -- and ladies," he said, nodding to a few senior Seamstresses in the back of the room, "I promised my wife some sight-seeing. Good day."
He touched his helmet, bowed, and walked out. Behind him, there was the sound of several people exhaling nervously.
"Now," came Wright's voice from the King's Chambers, "I believe I have some ruling to do. Let's get a little law around the place, shall we?"
"You think he'll be a good king?" Carrot asked, following his Commander down the hallway. Their boots echoed on the stone floor.
"He'll be a damn sight better than I would."
"Oh, I don't know about that, sir," Carrot replied, his big honest forehead wrinkling.
"I do, Carrot. Wright knows how to play the games. I just want to clean up the world. Worst kind of man to rule." Vimes turned out at the courtyard, stepping into the light. "I think he'll do all right. But then, what do I know? Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes was buried in five graves, after only six months. And he wasn't even king."
"You're not him, though, sir."
Vimes grinned and lit a cigar. "No, you're right there. Come on, Carrot, they're waiting for us."
***
King Dickson only found the letter, two weeks after the coronation, because he wanted to get the dents hammered out of his armour, for occasions when he might need it. The courier's pouch, which he'd worn strapped to his breastplate when he wasn't in plainclothes, seemed too thick to be empty. He unfolded the dingy sheet of paper, revealing Sam Vimes' scrawling curly handwriting. It was dated the day the Ankh-Morpork contingent had left Pseudopolis.
Dickson --
Crowns are heavy things. Be careful not to wear it too often. All the weight crushes the brain.
If you have to be a king, as Carrot says, best be a good king. Maybe you can outlaw the tendency of Pseudopolis folk to bend at the knees, in a few decades. Remember that you're an officer of the Watch and have a reputation to uphold.
Be told. I have twenty years on you and I know what I'm talking about.
If I hear about any foolishness in Pseudopolis, rest assured, you're not too royal to feel the flat of my sword.
Sam'l Vimes, Cmdr, AMCW
PS: Sybil sends her love.
Wright's wife, Her Royal Highness Queen Maggie, couldn't get him to stop laughing for a full ten minutes.
END
The Monarchy Election board were seated in front of Vimes, who stood, arms crossed, in front of Wright in the King's Chambers. Carrot stood next to him. It was very hard to yell at Carrot, so they were yelling at Vimes. It was not much easier.
"You wanted a king," Vimes said mildly.
"We wanted you!"
"But you've got a king, now. I should think that's what counts. I went to a lot of trouble to get you one."
"Through guile and deception!" a lower-order lord snapped.
"Yes, those are habits of mine," sighed Vimes. "Carrot, when I'm done here, make a note. Must work on reducing amount of guile I practice. Bad for the digestion."
"Noted, sir," Carrot said calmly. He didn't have sword-in-hand as they had done at the coronation. He didn't need it. The overtones of weaponry in the room were quite clear. We are armed, said the guards' stance, and you are not.
"We did not send emissaries to Ankh-Morpork for you to put some insolent young upstart on the throne!" another man yelled.
Commander Rater, Vimes noticed, was keeping silent. He was a good man, by all accounts, and was probably more proud of his protege's appointment to royalty than he was afraid of any royal repercussions.
Probably.
"He is the Bastard Earl of Ankh," Vimes continued, not quite believing what he said. "Kin to the man you wanted for king." He glanced at Wright, and continued. "I'd be a bit cautious about who I called insolent, if I were you."
"I..." the man's face drained of colour. "We were not consulted in this matter!"
"I didn't think a king needed to consult about a crowning," Vimes growled. "I thought he came and bloody fought for the crown, winner take all. And I'm sure the good people of Pseudopolis don't want to know that their leaders didn't consult them before offering some old sod in Ankh-Morpork the throne, when they had their very own Earl around."
He held up the letter they'd sent him. The more thoughtful members of the Board were already smiling ingratiatingly at the king, who was distinctly not smiling back.
"Tell me, Captain Carrot, how are my people taking the news of my coronation?" asked King Dickson I, royally.
"I'm told there's dancing. And quite a bit of drinking. Also someone's selling coronation mugs."
"With my name on them?"
"Yes."
"Well, that practically makes it irrefutable. Wouldn't you say, Tanner?"
The man who'd called him an insolent young upstart turned a shade paler, if that were possible. "I...look, it's only crockery!" he said to his companions, who were now giving him the sort of wide berth generally associated with someone shouting that the gods don't exist on top of a tall hill in a thunderstorm. "Are we going to let a blind priest and a painted mug establish rule in this town?"
"Well, if those aren't enough..." Vimes put his hand, very casually, on his sword-hilt.
"I think, begging your pardon, Your Grace, that His Highness, King Dickson, has an excellent point." The smooth-talking young priest again. "If the people approve of him, how can we say nay?"
"He's got a wife, and a couple of boys to carry on the crown. And no apparent history of mental instability. A good bargain, if you like that kind of thing," said Vimes. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen -- and ladies," he said, nodding to a few senior Seamstresses in the back of the room, "I promised my wife some sight-seeing. Good day."
He touched his helmet, bowed, and walked out. Behind him, there was the sound of several people exhaling nervously.
"Now," came Wright's voice from the King's Chambers, "I believe I have some ruling to do. Let's get a little law around the place, shall we?"
"You think he'll be a good king?" Carrot asked, following his Commander down the hallway. Their boots echoed on the stone floor.
"He'll be a damn sight better than I would."
"Oh, I don't know about that, sir," Carrot replied, his big honest forehead wrinkling.
"I do, Carrot. Wright knows how to play the games. I just want to clean up the world. Worst kind of man to rule." Vimes turned out at the courtyard, stepping into the light. "I think he'll do all right. But then, what do I know? Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes was buried in five graves, after only six months. And he wasn't even king."
"You're not him, though, sir."
Vimes grinned and lit a cigar. "No, you're right there. Come on, Carrot, they're waiting for us."
***
King Dickson only found the letter, two weeks after the coronation, because he wanted to get the dents hammered out of his armour, for occasions when he might need it. The courier's pouch, which he'd worn strapped to his breastplate when he wasn't in plainclothes, seemed too thick to be empty. He unfolded the dingy sheet of paper, revealing Sam Vimes' scrawling curly handwriting. It was dated the day the Ankh-Morpork contingent had left Pseudopolis.
Dickson --
Crowns are heavy things. Be careful not to wear it too often. All the weight crushes the brain.
If you have to be a king, as Carrot says, best be a good king. Maybe you can outlaw the tendency of Pseudopolis folk to bend at the knees, in a few decades. Remember that you're an officer of the Watch and have a reputation to uphold.
Be told. I have twenty years on you and I know what I'm talking about.
If I hear about any foolishness in Pseudopolis, rest assured, you're not too royal to feel the flat of my sword.
Sam'l Vimes, Cmdr, AMCW
PS: Sybil sends her love.
Wright's wife, Her Royal Highness Queen Maggie, couldn't get him to stop laughing for a full ten minutes.
END