Guards! Guards! (Discworld 8)

“She's indoors somewhere,” said Miss Rodley. “Said she had something important to see to. Oh, do be careful with that one, Rose, you silly gel!”

“More important than dragons?” said Vimes.

“Yes. Can't think what's come over her.” Brenda Rodley fished in the pocket of an oversized waistcoat. “Nice to have met you, Captain. Always good to meet new members of the Fancy. Do drop in any time you're passing, I'd be only too happy to show you around.” She extracted a grubby card and pressed it into his hand. “Must be off now, we've heard that some of them are trying to build nests on the University tower. Can't have that. Must get 'em down before it gets dark.”

Vimes squinted at the card as the women crunched off down the drive, carrying nets and ropes.

It said: Brenda, Lady Rodley. The Dower House, Quirm Castle, Quirm. What it meant, he realised, was that striding away down the path like an animated rummage stall was the dowager Duchess of Quirm, who owned more country than you could see from a very high mountain on a very clear day. Nobby would not have approved. There seemed to be a special land of poverty that only the very, very rich could possibly afford . . .

That was how you got to be a power in the land, he thought. You never cared a toss about whatever anyone else thought and you were never, ever, uncertain about anything.

He padded back to the house. A door was open. It led into a large but dark and musty hall. Up in the gloom the heads of dead animals haunted the walls. The Ramkins seemed to have endangered more species than an ice age.

Vimes wandered aimlessly through another mahogany archway.

It was a dining room, containing the kind of table where the people at the other end are in a different time zone. One end had been colonised by silver candlesticks.

It was laid for two. A battery of cutlery flanked each plate. Antique wineglasses sparkled in the candlelight.

A terrible premonition took hold of Vimes at the same moment as a gust of Captivation, the most expensive perfume available anywhere in Ankh-Morpork, blew past him.

“Ah, Captain. So nice of you to come.”

Vimes turned around slowly, without his feet appearing to move.

Lady Ramkin stood there, magnificently.

Vimes was vaguely aware of a brilliant blue dress that sparkled in the candlelight, a mass of hair the colour of chestnuts, a slightly anxious face that suggested that a whole battalion of skilled painters and decorators had only just dismantled their scaffolding and gone home, and a faint creaking that said underneath it all mere corsetry was being subjected to the kind of tensions more usually found in the heart of large stars.

o;I said, we have been trying to think of some suitable recompense, Captain Vimes. Various public-spirited citizens-” the Patrician's eyes took in the Council and Lady Ramkin-“and, of course, myself, feel that an appropriate reward is due.”

Vimes still looked blank.

“Reward?” he said.

“It is customary for such heroic endeavour,” said the Patrician, a little testily.

Vimes faced forward again. “Really haven't thought about it, sir,” he said. “Can't speak for the men, of course.”

There was an awkward pause. Out of the corner of his eye Vimes was aware of Nobby nudging the sergeant in the ribs. Eventually Colon stumbled forward and ripped off another salute. “Permission to speak, sir,” he muttered.

The Patrician nodded graciously.

The sergeant coughed. He removed his helmet and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“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.