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Vimes’s expression did not change. So, what do I do now? Nothing, that’s what. You have the right to remain silent, I’ve said that to hundreds of people, knowing it for the rubbish that it is, and I’m absolutely certain of one other thing, that I certainly haven’t laid anything more than an educational hand on that damned blacksmith and therefore it’s going to be very interesting to find out why this little twerp thinks he can feel my collar for doing so.
A copper should always be willing to learn, and Vimes had learned from Lord Vetinari that you should never react to any comment or situation until you had decided exactly what you were going to do. This had the dual attraction of preventing you from saying or doing the wrong thing while at the same time making other people extremely nervous.
“Sorry about that, sir, but it took me an hour to get the pigs out and make the lockup comfortable, sir, it still smells a bit of disinfectant, sir, and pig, if it comes to that, but I whitewashed the walls and there’s a chair and a bed you can curl up on. Oh, and so you don’t get bored I found the magazine.” He looked hopefully at Vimes, whose expression had not changed, merely calcified, but after a suitably long stare Vimes said, “Which magazine?”
“Sir? I didn’t know there was more than one. We’ve always had it. It’s about pigs. It’s a bit worn now, but pigs is always pigs.”
Vimes stood up. “I’m going to go for a walk, chief constable. You can follow me if you like.”
“Sorry, sir, but I’ve arrested you!”
“No, son, you haven’t,” said Vimes, heading toward the front door.
“
But I definitely told you that you were arrested, sir!” It was almost a wail.
Vimes opened the front door and started down the steps with Feeney trotting along behind him. A couple of gardeners who would otherwise have turned away leaned on their brooms at the sight, suspecting a cabaret.
“What in the world have you got on you that tells me you are an official policeman?” enquired Vimes over his shoulder.
“I have the official truncheon, sir. It’s a family heirloom!”
Sam Vimes stopped walking and turned. “Well, my lad, if it’s official then you’d better let me look at it, hadn’t you? Come on, hand it over.” Feeney did so.
It was just an oversized blackjack, with the word “law” inexpertly burnt into it with maybe a poker. Good weight, though. Vimes tapped it in his palm and said, “You’ve given me to understand that you believe that I’m potentially a murderer and you’ve handed your weapon to me! Don’t you think that’s unwise?”
Vimes saw the landscape drift past as he floated over the terrace and landed on his back in a flower bed, staring at the sky. Feeney’s concerned face, somewhat overlarge, appeared in his vision. “Sorry about that, commander. Personally I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, but I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression. That move translates as One Man He Up Down Very Sorry.”
Vimes watched the patch of sky above him in a state of inexplicable peace as the boy said, “You see, my granddad worked on the tall ships when he was a lad, sailing over to Bhangbhangduc and all them places where folk is so strange, and when he came back he brought my granny, Ming Chang, and she taught that to my dad and to me.” He sniffed. “She died a few months ago, but at least she taught my mum cookery, too. Bung Ming Suck Dog is still a favorite in these parts and, of course, it’s not too difficult to get the ingredients, being so close to the sea. Bong Can Bang Keng doesn’t grow very well around here, although Packed Shop Chop Muck Dick grows pretty well. Oh, the color is coming back to your face, sir, I’m very pleased to say.”
Aching at every joint, Vimes pulled himself upright. “Don’t do that again, d’you hear?”
“I’ll try not to do so, sir, but you are under arrest, sir.”
“I told you, young man, you have not properly arrested me.” Vimes got to his feet, wheezing a little. “In order to effect a legal arrest, the arresting officer must be physically touching the suspect while clearly uttering the words ‘I arrest you,’ like this, although at that time you need not specify the crime of which your suspect is suspected. While so doing…” and here Vimes punched the boy so hard in the solar plexus that he curled up, “…it pays to take care, which you are going to need to do, my lad, if you intend to arrest me, which I may point out you still have not done, which is a shame because if you had you would now have a clear case against me for resisting arrest as well as assaulting a policeman in the execution of his duty. With the proviso that nothing about you so far leads me to believe that you truly are a policeman.”
Vimes sat down on a handy stone and watched as Feeney began to unfold. “I’m Sam Vimes, young man, so don’t try that chop sally stuff on me, understand?”
Now Feeney’s voice was a sort of attenuated wheeze: “And one day someone will say to you, ‘Do you know who I am, constable?’ to which you will reply, ‘Yes, sir, or, as it may be, madam, you are the person I am interviewing in connection with the aforesaid crime,’ or similar appropriate wording, which should not include such phrases as ‘You are going down, chummy,’ or ‘I’ve got you bang to rights and no mistake.’ Ignore, but remember, all threats made. The law is one and immutable. It does not care who anybody is and at that moment you, in a very real way, are it, and therefore nor do you.”
Vimes stood with his mouth open as Feeney continued. “We don’t often get The Times over here, but I bought a load of pig medicine a year ago and it was wrapped in The Times and I saw your name when you spoke about being a policeman. It made me feel very proud, sir.”
Vimes remembered that speech. He’d had to write it for the passing-out parade of some newly trained officers from the Watch School. He had spent hours trying to get it down, hampered by the fact that for him any form of literature was in every sense a closed book.
He had shown it to Sybil and asked her whether she thought he should get somebody to help him with it, and she had patted him on the head and said, “No, dear, because then it would look like something written by somebody for somebody else, whereas right now the pure Vimes shows through, like a radiant beacon.” That had quite cheered him up, because he had never been a radiant beacon before.
But now his heart sank as his train of thought was interrupted by a very polite cough and the voice of Willikins, who said, “Excuse me, commander, I thought it right at this time to introduce the young gentleman to my friends Mr. Burleigh and Mr. Stronginthearm. Lady Sybil would not be happy to see you arrested, commander. I fear that you would find her a bit…acerbic, sir.”
Vimes found his voice. “You’re a bloody fool, man! Put that damn thing down! You keep it on a hair trigger! Put it down right now!”
Willikins wordlessly set down the shining crossbow on the parapet of the staircase like a mother putting her baby to bed. There was a twang, and seventeen yards away a geranium was decapitated. This passed without notice, except by the geranium and a raggedy figure hiding in the rhododendrons, that said “Snack!” to itself, but resolutely carried on staring at Vimes.
The tableau of shock on the steps was interrupted by Lady Sybil, who could walk very quietly for a large woman. “Gentlemen, what is going on here?”
“This young man, allegedly the local policeman, wishes to take me into custody on a charge of suspicion of murder, my dear.”
There passed between husband and wife a look that deserved the status of telepathy. Sybil stared at Feeney. “Ah, you would be young Upshot, I suppose. I was sorry to hear about the death of your grandmother, and I do trust that your mother continues well. I used to visit her when I was a girl. And you want to arrest my husband, do you?”
