Men at Arms (Discworld 15)

The Master of Assassins was white with rage, contrasting nicely with the extreme black of his clothing.

'No-one sent for you!' he said. 'What gives you the right to be here, mister policeman? Walking around as if you own the place?'

Vimes paused, his heart singing. He savoured the moment. He'd like to take this moment and press it carefully in a big book, so that when he was old he could take it out occasionally and remember it.

He reached into his breastplate and pulled out the lawyer's letter.

'Well, if you would like the most fundamental reason,' he said, 'it is because I rather think I do.'

A man can be defined by the things he hates. There were quite a lot of things that Captain Vimes hated. Assassins were near the top of the list, just after kings and the undead.

He had to allow, though, that Dr Cruces recovered very quickly. He didn't explode when he read the letter, or argue, or claim it was a forgery. He simply folded it up, handed it back, and said, coldly, 'I see. The freehold, at least.'

'Quite so. Could you tell me what has been happening, please?'

He was aware of other senior Assassins entering the courtyard through the hole in the wall. They were very carefully looking at the debris.

Dr Cruces hesitated for a moment.

'Fireworks,' he said.

'What happened,' said Gaspode, 'was that someone put a dragon in a box right up against the wall inside the courtyard, right, and then they went and hid behind one of the statues and pulled a string and next minute – bang!'

oint was that everyone else had someone, even if in Nobby's case it was probably against their will.

So, Captain Vimes, what is it really? Do you care for her? Don't worry too much about love, that's a dicey word for the over-forties. Or are you just afraid of becoming some old man dying in the groove of his life and buried out of pity by a bunch of youngsters who never knew you as anything other than some old fart who always seemed to be around the place and got sent out to bring back the coffee and hot figgins and was laughed at behind his back?

He'd wanted to avoid that. And now Fate was handing him a fairy tale.

Of course he'd known she was rich. But he hadn't expected the summons to Mr Morecombe's office.

Mr Morecombe had been the Ramkins' family solicitor for a long time. Centuries, in fact. He was a vampire.

Vimes disliked vampires. Dwarfs were law-abiding little buggers when they were sober, and even trolls were all right if you kept them where you could see them. But all the undead made his neck itch. Live and let live was all very well, but there was a problem right there, when you thought about it logically . . .

Mr Morecombe was scrawny, like a tortoise, and very pale. It had taken him ages to come to the point, and when it came the point nailed Vimes to his chair.

'How much?'

'Er. I believe I am right in saying the estate, including the farms, the areas of urban development, and the small area of unreal estate near the University, are together worth approximately . . . seven million dollars a year. Yes. Seven million at current valuation, I would say.'

'It's all mine?'

'From the hour of your wedding to Lady Sybil. Although she instructs me in this letter that you are to have access to all her accounts as of the present moment.'

The pearly dead eyes had watched Vimes carefully.

'Lady Sybil,' he said, 'owns approximately one-tenth of Ankh, and extensive properties in Morpork, plus of course considerable farm lands in—'

'But . . . but . . . we'll own them together . . .'

'Lady Sybil is very specific. She is deeding all the property to you as her husband. She has a somewhat. . . old-fashioned approach.' He pushed a folded paper across the table. Vimes took it, unfolded it, and stared.

'Should you predecease her, of course,' Mr Morecombe droned on, 'it will revert to her by common right of marriage. Or to any fruit of the union, of course.'

Vimes hadn't even said anything at that point. He'd just felt his mouth drop open and small areas of his brain fuse together.

'Lady Sybil,' said the lawyer, the words coming from far away, 'while not as young as she was, is a fine healthy woman and there is no reason why—'