Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“I thought it would be something for him to play with,” said Carrot, slightly shamefaced.

“You bought him a little toy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What a kind thought.”

Vimes hoped Carrot hadn't noticed the fluffy ball tucked into the back of the box. It had been quite expensive.

He left the two of them and stepped into the outside world.

There was even more bunting now. People were beginning to line the main streets, even though there were hours to wait. It was still very depressing.

He felt an appetite for once, one that it'd take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga's vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone. Now laboriously-made paper streamers criss-crossed the room and he was confronted with a crayonned menu in which the words “Coronasion” and “Royall” figured somewhere on every crooked line.

Vimes pointed wearily at the top of the menu.

“What's this?” he said.

Harga peered at it. They were alone in the grease-walled cafe.

“It says 'Bye Royarl Appointmente', Captain,” he said proudly.

“What's it mean?”

Harga scratched his head with a ladle. “What it means is,” he said, “if the king comes in here, he'll like it.”

“Have you got anything that isn't too aristocratic for me to eat, then?” said Vimes sourly, and settled for a slice of plebeian fried bread and a proletarian steak cooked so rare you could still hear it bray. Vimes ate it at the counter.

A vague scraping noise disturbed his thoughts. “What're you doing?” he said.

Harga looked up guiltily from his work behind the counter.

“Nothing, Cap'n,” he said. He tried to hide the evidence behind him when Vimes glared over the knife-chewed woodwork.

“Come on, Sham. You can show me.”

Harga's beefy hands came reluctantly into view.

“I was only scraping the old fat out of the pan,” he mumbled.

“I see. And how long have we known each other, Sham?” said Vimes, with terrible kindness.

“Years, Cap'n,” said Harga. “You bin coming in here nearly every day, reg'lar. One of my best customers.”

Vimes leaned over the counter until his nose was level with the squashy pink thing in the middle of Har-ga's face.

“And in all that time, have you ever changed the fat?” he demanded.

Harga tried to back away. “Well-”

“It's been like a friend to me, that old fat,” said Vimes. “There's little black bits in there I've grown to know and love. It's a meal in itself. And you've cleaned out the coffee jug, haven't you. I can tell. This is love-in-a-canoe coffee if ever I tasted it. The other stuff had flavour. ”

“Well, I thought it was time-”

“Why?”

Harga let the pan fall from his pudgy fingers. “Well, I thought, if the king should happen to come in-”