Men at Arms Read Free Page A

pages in there! We own it. But this man has you mesmerized! I assure you he is flesh and blood, a mere mortal! No one dares remove him because they th-ink it will make things a little worse for themselves! Ye g-ods!”
    His audience looked glum. It was all true, of course…if you put it that way. And it didn’t sound any better coming from a wild-eyed, pompous young man.
    “Yes, yes, the good old days. Towerin’ spires and pennants and chivalry and all that,” said Viscount Skater. “Ladies in pointy hats. Chappies in armor bashin’ one another and whatnot. But, y’know, we have to move with the times—”
    “It was a golden age,” said Edward.
    My god, thought Lord Rust. He actually does believe it.
    “You see, dear boy,” said Lady Selachii, “a few chance likenesses and a piece of jewelery—that doesn’t really add up to much, does it?”
    “My nurse told me,” said Viscount Skater, “that a true king could pull a sword from a stone.”
    “Hah, yes, and cure dandruff,” said Lord Rust.“That’s just a legend. That’s not real . Anyway, I’ve always been a bit puzzled about that story. What’s so hard about pulling a sword out of a stone? The real work’s already been done. You ought to make yourself useful and find the man who put the sword in the stone in the first place, eh?”
    There was a sort of relieved laughter. That’s what Edward remembered. It all ended up in laughter. Not exactly at him , but he was the type of person who always takes laughter personally.
    Ten minutes later, Edward d’Eath was alone.
    They’re being so nice about it. Moving with the times! He’d expected more than that of them. A lot more. He’d dared to hope that they might be inspired by his lead. He’d pictured himself at the head of an army—
    Blenkin came in at a respectful shuffle.
    “I saw ’em all off, Mr. Edward,” he said.
    “Thank you, Blenkin. You may clear the table.”
    “Yes, Mr. Edward.”
    “Whatever happened to honor, Blenkin?”
    “Dunno, sir. I never took it.”
    “They didn’t want to listen.”
    “No, sir.”
    “They didn’t want to l-isten.”
    Edward sat by the dying fire, with a dog-eared copy of Thighbiter’s The Ankh-Morpork Succesfion open on his lap. Dead kings and queens looked at him reproachfully.
    And there it might have ended. In fact it did end there, in millions of universes. Edward d’Eath grew older and obsession turned to a sort of bookish insanity of the gloves-with-the-fingers-cut-out and carpet slippers variety, and became an expert on royalty although no one ever knew this because he seldom lefthis rooms. Corporal Carrot became Sergeant Carrot and, in the fullness of time, died in uniform aged seventy in an unlikely accident involving an anteater.
    In a million universes, Lance-Constables Cuddy and Detritus didn’t fall through the hole. In a million universes, Vimes didn’t find the pipes. (In one strange but theoretically possible universe the Watch House was redecorated in pastel colors by a freak whirlwind, which also repaired the door latch and did a few other odd jobs around the place.) In a million universes, the Watch failed.
    In a million universes, this was a very short book.
    Edward dozed off with the book on his knees and had a dream. He dreamed of glorious struggle. Glorious was another important word in his personal vocabulary, like honor.
    If traitors and dishonorable men would not see the truth then he, Edward d’Eath, was the finger of Destiny.
    The problem with Destiny, of course, is that she is often not careful where she puts her finger.
     
    Captain Sam Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Guard (Night Watch), sat in the draughty anteroom to the Patrician’s audience chamber with his best cloak on and his breastplate polished and his helmet on his knees.
    He stared woodenly at the wall.
    He ought to be happy, he told himself. And he was. In a way. Definitely. Happy as anything.
    He was going to get married in a few days.
    He was going to stop