Free Jingo by Terry Pratchett Page B

opportunities the citizens had of jeering at their social superiors, or at least at people wearing tights and ridiculous costumes.
    It had grown so big that it was now held in the city’s Opera House. Distrustful people—that is to say, people like Vimes—considered that this was so there could be a procession. There was nothing like the massed ranks of wizardry walking sedately through the city in a spirit of civic amicability to subtly remind the more thoughtful kind of person that it hadn’t always been this way. Look at us, the wizards seemed to be saying. We used to rule this city. Look at our big staffs with the knobs on the end. Any one of these could do some very serious damage in the wrong hands so it’s a good thing, isn’t it, that they’re in the right hands at the moment? Isn’t it nice that we all get along so well?
    And someone, once, had decided that the Commander of the Watch should walk in front, for symbolic reasons. That hadn’t mattered for years because there hadn’t been a Commander of the Watch, but now there was, and he was Sam Vimes. In a red shirt with silly baggy sleeves, red tights, some kind of puffed shorts in a style that went out of fashion, by the look of it, at the time when flint was at the cutting edge of cutting-edge technology, a tiny shiny breastplate and a helmet with feathers in it.
    And he really did need some sleep.
    And he had to carry the truncheon.
    He kept his eyes fixed on the damn thing as he walked out of the University’s main gate. Last night’s rain had cleaned the sky. The city steamed.
    If he stared at the truncheon he didn’t have to see who was giggling at him.
    The downside was that he had to keep staring at the thing.
    It said, on a little tarnished shield that he’d had to clean before reading it, Protecter of thee Kinge’s Piece .
    That had brightened the occasion slightly.
    Feathers and antiques, gold braid and fur…
    Perhaps it was because he was tired, or just because he was trying to shut out the world, but Vimes found himself slowing down into the traditional watchman’s walk and the traditional idling thought process.
    It was an almost Pavlovian response. * The legs swung, the feet moved, the mind began to work in a certain way. It wasn’t a dream state, exactly. It was just that the ears, nose and eyeballs wired themselves straight into the ancient “suspicious bastard” node of his brain, leaving his higher brain center free to freewheel.
    …Fur and tights…what kind of wear was that for a watchman? Bashed-in armor, greasy leather breeches and a tatty shirt with bloodstains on it, someone else’s for preference…that was the stuff…nice feel of the cobbles through his boots, it was really comforting…
    Behind him, confusion running up and down the ranks, the procession slowed down to keep in step.
    “…Hah, Protecter of thee Kinge’s Piece indeed…” he’d said to the old man who’d delivered it, “Which piece did you have in mind?” but that had fallen on stony ears…damn silly thing anyway, he’d thought, a short length of wood with a lump of silver on the end…even a constable got a decent sword, what was he supposed to do, wave it at people?…ye gods, it was months since he’d had a good walk through the streets…lot of people about today…some parade on, wasn’t there…?
    “Oh dear,” said Captain Carrot, in the crowd. “What’s he doing?”
    Next to him an Agatean tourist was industriously pulling the lever of his iconograph.
    Commander Vimes stopped and, with a faraway look in his eyes, tucked his truncheon under one arm and reached up to his helmet.
    The tourist looked up at Carrot and tugged his shirt politely.
    “Please, what is he doing now?” he said.
    “Er…he’s…he’s taking out…”
    “Oh, no …” said Angua.
    “…he’s taking the ceremonial packet of cigars out of his helmet,” said Carrot. “Oh…and he’s, he’s lighting one…”
    The tourist pulled the lever a few