I Shall Wear Midnight

The King’s Head, or at least whatever part of the king’s anatomy it now was, was not very far away, but the witches had to push their way through the crowds when they were at least a hundred yards away, and many of the people making up the crowd were holding pint mugs in their hands. Mrs Proust and Tiffany both wore hobnailed boots, a boon to anyone who must get through a crowd in a hurry and there, in front of them was, for want of a better word — although the Feegles would have used a different word, and indeed the Feegles would not have hesitated to use a different word — was, in fact, the King’s Back, which came as a relief. Standing in front of the back door, which was now doing the duty formerly left to the front door, and handing out mugs of beer with one hand while taking money with the other, was Mr Wilkin, the landlord. He looked like a cat on the day it rained mice.

Every now and again he managed to find time in this heroic endeavour to say a few words to a skinny but purposeful-looking lady who was writing things down in a notebook.

Mrs Proust nudged Tiffany. ‘See her? That’s Miss Cripslock of The Times, and over there’ — she pointed at a tall man in the uniform of the Watch — ‘see there, the man she’s talking to is Commander Vimes of the City Watch. Decent man, always looks grumpy, won’t stand any nonsense. This is going to be interesting, because he doesn’t like kings of any sort; one of his ancestors chopped off the head of the last king we had.’

‘That’s dreadful! Did he deserve it?’

Mrs Proust hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, if it’s true about what they found in his private dungeon, then the answer is “yes” in great big letters. They put the commander’s ancestor on trial anyway, because chopping heads off kings always causes a certain amount of comment, apparently. When the man stood in the dock, all he said was, “Had the beast a hundred heads I would not have rested until I had slain every last one.” Which was taken as a guilty plea. He was hanged, and then much later they put up a statue to him, which tells you more about people than you might wish to know. His nickname was Old Stoneface, and as you can see, it runs in the family.’

Tiffany could, and this was because the commander was moving purposefully towards her, his expression that of a man who had a lot of things to do, all of them more important than what he was having to do right now. He gave a respectful little nod to Mrs Proust, and tried unsuccessfully not to glare at Tiffany.

‘Did you do this?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Do you know who did?’

‘No, sir!’

The commander frowned. ‘Young lady, if a burglar breaks into a house and then comes back later and puts everything back where it was, a crime has still happened, do you understand? And if the building that has been badly damaged, along with its contents, is found next morning looking all shiny and new, albeit facing the wrong way, that too — and therefore those involved — are, nevertheless, still criminals. Except that I have no idea what to call it and quite frankly I would rather be shot of the whole damn business.’

Tiffany blinked. She hadn’t heard that last sentence, not exactly heard it, but could remember it anyway. They must have been spill words! She glanced at Mrs Proust, who nodded happily, and in Tiffany’s head there was a little spill word that said ‘yes’.

Out loud, Mrs Proust said, ‘Commander, it seems to me that no real harm has been done, given that, if I’m any judge, Mr Wilkin here is doing a roaring trade in the King’s Back and would probably not welcome it becoming the King’s Head again.’

‘Too right!’ said the landlord, who was shovelling money into a bag.

Commander Vimes was frowning, and Tiffany caught the words that he was almost but not actually saying: ‘No king’s coming back while I’m here!’

Mrs Proust butted in again. ‘How about letting it be called the King’s Neck?’ she suggested. ‘Especially since he appears to have dandruff, greasy hair and a big ripe boil?’

To Tiffany’s delight, the commander’s face stayed as stony as ever, but she caught a tremble of a spill word that was a triumphant ‘Yes!’ And at that point Mrs Proust, who believed in securing victory by every means at her disposal, chimed in again with, ‘This is Ankh-Morpork, Mr Vimes; in the summer the river catches fire and it has been known to rain fish and bedsteads, so, in the great scheme of things, when you think about it, what’s so wrong about a pub spinning on its axis? Most of its customers do the same! How is your little boy, by the way?’