Jingo

There was a crowd in the street. In the centre there rose the bulk of Constable Dorfl, and a key thing about the golem was that if he was banging a drum then no one was going to ask him to stop. No one except possibly Lord Rust, who strode up and snatched the drumsticks out of his hands.

“Yerss, it are species of your choice's life in der First of Foot!” shouted Sergeant Detritus, unaware of the events going on behind him. “You learnin' a trade! You learnin' self-respek! Also you get spiffy uniform plus all der boots you can eat – here, dat's my banner!”

“What's the meaning of this?” said Rust, flinging the homemade banner on to the ground. “Vimes can't do this!”

A figure detached itself from the wall, where it had been watching the show.

“You know, I rather think I can,” said Vimes. He handed Rust a piece of paper. “It's all here, my lord. With references citing the highest authorities, in case you are in any doubt.”

“Citing the—?”

“On the role of a knight, my lord. In fact the duties of a knight, funnily enough. A lot of it is pretty damn stupid stuff, riding around the place on one of those bloody great horses with curtains round it and so on, but one of them says in time of need a knight has to raise and maintain – you'll laugh when I tell you this – a body of armed soldiers! No one could have been more surprised than me, I don't mind telling you! Seems there's nothing for it but I have to go out and get some chaps together. Of course, most of the watch have joined, well, you know how it is, disciplined lads, anxious to do their bit, so that saved me a bit of effort. Except for Nobby Nobbs, 'cos he says if he leaves it till Thursday he's going to have enough white feathers for a mattress.”

Rust's expression would have preserved meat for a year.

“This is a nonsense,” he said. “And you, Vimes, certainly are no knight. Only a king can make—”

“There's a good few lordships in this city created by the Patricians,” said Vimes. “Your friend Lord Downey, for one. You were saying?”

“Then if you persist in playing games I will say that before a knight is created he must spend a night's vigil watching his armour—”

“Practically every night of my life,” said Vimes. “A man doesn't keep an eye on his armour round here, that man's got no armour in the morning.”

“In prayer,” said Rust sharply.

“That's me,” said Vimes. “Not a night has gone by without me thinking, ‘Ye gods, I hope I get through this alive.’”

“—and he must have proved himself on the field of combat. Against other trained men, Vimes. Not vermin and thugs.”

Vimes started to undo the strap of his helmet.

“Well, this isn't the best of moments, my lord, but if someone'll hold your coat I can spare you five minutes…”

In Vimes's eyes Rust recognized the fiery gleam of burning boats.

“I know what you're doing, Vimes, and I am not going to rise to it,” he said, taking a step back. “In any case, you have had no formal training in arms.”

“That's true,” said Vimes. “You've got me there, right enough. No one ever trained me in arms. I was lucky there.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice so that the watching crowd wouldn't hear. “Y'see, I know what ‘training in arms’ means, Ronald. There hasn't been a real war in ages. So it's all prancing around wearing padded waistcoats and waving swords with knobs on the end so no one'll really get hurt, isn't it? But down in the Shades no one's had any training in arms either. Wouldn't know an épée from a sabre. No, what they're good at is a broken bottle in one hand and a length of four-by-two in the other and when you face 'em, Ronnie, you know you aren't going off for a laugh and a jolly drink afterwards, 'cos they want you dead. They want to kill you, you see, Ron? And by the time you've swung your nice shiny broadsword they've carved their name and address on your stomach. And that's where I got my training in arms. Well… fists and knees and teeth and elbows, mostly.”

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” said Rust.

“I knew there was something about me that I liked.”

“Can you not even see that you can't enrol… dwarfs and trolls in an Ankh-Morpork regiment?”

“It just says ‘armed soldiers’, and dwarfs come with their own axes. A great saving. Besides, if you've ever seen them really fight, then you must've been on the same side.”

“Vimes—”

“It's Sir Samuel, my lord.”

Rust seemed to think for a moment.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Then you and your… regiment come under my command—”

“Strangely, no,” said Vimes swiftly. “Under the command of the King or his duly appointed representative, it says in Scavone's Chivalric Law and Usage. And, of course, there has been no duly appointed representative ever since some complete bastard cut off the last king's head. Oh, assorted bods appeared to have been ruling the city, but according to the chivalric tradition–”