Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“Er,” he said. “The thing is, saving your honour's presence, we think, you know, what with saving the city and everything, or sort of, or, what I mean is ... we just had a go you see, man on the spot and that sort of thing ... the thing is, we reckon we're entitled. If you catch my drift.”

The assembled company nodded. This was exactly how it should be.

“Do go on,” said the Patrician.

“So we, like, put our heads together,” said the sergeant. “A bit of a cheek, I know ...”

“Please carry on, Sergeant,” said the Patrician. “You needn't keep stopping. We are well aware of the magnitude of the matter.”

“Right, sir. Well, sir. First, it's the wages.”

“The wages?” said Lord Vetinari. He stared at Vimes, who stared at nothing.

The sergeant raised his head. His expression was the determined expression of a man who is going to see it through.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thirty dollars a month. It's not right. We think-” he licked his lips and glanced behind him at the other two, who were making vague encouraging motions-“we think a basic rate of, er, thirty-five dollars? A month?” He stared at the Patrician's stony expression. “With increments as per rank? We thought five dollars.”

He licked his lips again, unnerved by the Patrician's expression. “We won't go below four,” he said. “And that's flat. Sorry, your Highness, but there it is.”

The Patrician glanced again at Vimes's impassive face, then looked back at the rank.

“That's if?”he said.

Nobby whispered in Colon's ear and then darted back. The sweating sergeant gripped his helmet as though it was the only real thing in the world.

“There was another thing, your reverence,” he said.

“Ah.” The Patrician smiled knowingly.

“There's the kettle. It wasn't much good anyway, and then Errol et it. It was nearly two dollars.” He swallowed. "We could do with a new kettle, if it's all the same, your lordship.''

The Patrician leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

“I want to be clear about this,” he said coldly. “Are we to believe that you are asking for a petty wage increase and a domestic utensil?”

Carrot whispered in Colon's other ear.

Colon turned two bulging, watery-rimmed eyes to the dignitaries. The rim of his helmet was passing through his fingers like a mill wheel.

“Well,” he began, “sometimes, we thought, you know, when we has our dinner break, or when it's quite, like, at the end of a watch as it may be, and we want to relax a bit, you know, wind down ...” His voice trailed away.

“Yes?”

Colon took a deep breath.

“I suppose a dartboard would be out of the question-?”

The thunderous silence that followed was broken by an erratic snorting.

Vimes's helmet dropped out of his shaking hand. His breastplate wobbled as the suppressed laughter of the years burst out in great uncontrollable eruptions. He turned his face to the row of councillors and laughed and laughed until the tears came.

Laughed at the way they got up, all confusion and outraged dignity.

Laughed at the Patrician's carefully immobile expression.

Laughed for the world and the saving of souls.

Laughed and laughed, and laughed until the tears came.